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 MEMORIES!
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 IRVINE 
 
 GIFT OF 
 Nona Bridge

 
 MEMORIES.
 
 TALES FROM FOREIGN LANDS. 
 
 16MO. GILT TOPS. 
 UNIFORM IN STYLE AND PRICE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Memories: A Story of German Love. Translated 
 
 from the German of MAX MULLER, by GEORGE P. UPTON. 
 II. 
 
 Graziella: A Story of Italian Love. Translated from 
 
 the French of A. DE LAMARTINH, by JAMES B. RUNNION. 
 III. 
 
 Marie: A Story of Russian Love. From the Russian 
 
 of ALEXANDER PUSHKIN, by MARIE H. DE ZIELINSKA. 
 IV. 
 
 Madeleine: A Story of French Love. Translated 
 from the French of JULES SANDEAU, by FRANCIS CHARLOT. 
 
 V. 
 
 Marianela: A Story of Spanish Love. Translated 
 
 from the Spanish of B. PEREZ GALDOS, by HELEN W. 
 LESTER. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Cousin PhillJs: A Story of English Love. By 
 ELIZABETH C. GASKELL. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Karinc: A Story of Swedish Love. Translated from 
 the German of WILHELM JENSEN, by EMMA A. ENDLICH. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Maria Felicia: A Story of Bohemian Love. Trans- 
 lated from the Bohemian of CAROLINE SVKTLA, by 
 ANTONIE KREJSA.
 
 MEMORIES: 
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN 
 
 OF 
 
 <<zfa MAX MJULLER. 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE P. UPTON. 
 
 THIRTY-FIFTH THOUSAND. 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO. 
 igoo
 
 Rntered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874 . by 
 
 JANSEN, McCLURG & CO., 
 In the o'fice of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE, 9 
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE, 15 
 
 FIRST MEMORY, 19 
 
 SECOND MEMORY, 29 
 
 THIRD MEMORY, 41 
 
 FOURTH MEMORY, 53 
 
 FIFTH MEMORY, 69 
 
 SIXTH MEMORY, 97 
 
 SEVENTH MEMORY, 109 
 
 LAST MEMORY, 147
 
 TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
 
 TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 THE translation of any work is at best a 
 difficult task, and must inevitably be pre- 
 judicial to whatever of beauty the original pos- 
 sesses. When the principal charm of the original 
 lies in its elegant simplicity, as in the case of the 
 "Deutsche Liebe," the difficulty is still further 
 enhanced. The translator has sought to repro- 
 duce the simple German in equally simple Eng- 
 lish, even at the risk of transferring German 
 idioms into the English text. 
 
 The story speaks for itself. Without plot, 
 incidents or situations, it is nevertheless dramat- 
 ically constructed, unflagging in interest, abound- 
 ing in beauty, grace and pathos, and filled with 
 the tenderest feeling of sympathy, which will go 
 straight to the heart of every lover of the ideal
 
 10 TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 in the world of humanity, and every worshipper 
 in the world of nature. Its brief essays upon 
 theology, literature and social habits, contained 
 in the dialogues between the hero and the hero- 
 ine, will commend themselves to the thoughtful 
 reader by their clearness and beauty of state- 
 ment, as well as by their freedom from prejudice. 
 " Deutsche Liebe " is a poem in prose, whose 
 setting is all the more beautiful and tender, in 
 that it is freed from the bondage of metre, and 
 has been the unacknowledged source of many 
 a poet's most striking utterances. 
 
 As such, the translator gives it to the public, 
 confident that it will find ready acceptance 
 among those who cherish the ideal, and a tender 
 welcome by every lover of humanity. 
 
 The translator desires to make acknowledg- 
 ments to J. J. Lalor, Esq., late of the Chicago 
 Tribune^ for his hearty co-operation in the pro- 
 gress of the work, and many valuable sugges- 
 tions; to Prof. Feuling, the eminent philologist, 
 of the University of Wisconsin, for his literal
 
 TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE. n 
 
 version of the extracts from the " Deutsche The- 
 ologie," which preserve the quaintness of the 
 original, and to Mrs. F. M. Brown, for her 
 metrical version of Goethe's almost untrans- 
 latable lines, " Ueber alien Gipfeln, ist Ruh," 
 which form the key-note of the beautiful har- 
 mony in the character of the heroine. 
 
 G. P. U. 
 
 Chicago, November, 1874.
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE.
 
 AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 WHO has not, at some period of his life, 
 seated himself at a writing-table, where, 
 only a short time before, another sat, who now 
 rests in the grave? Who has not opened the 
 drawers, which for long years have hidden the 
 secrets of a heart now buried in the holy peace 
 of the church -yard ? Here lie the letters which 
 were so precious to him, the beloved one ; here 
 the pictures, ribbons, and books with marks on 
 every leaf. Who can now read and interpret 
 them ? Who can gather again the withered and 
 scattered leaves of this rose, and vivify them 
 with fresh perfume? The flames, in which the 
 Greeks enveloped the bodies of the departed 
 for the purpose of destruction ; the flames, into 
 which the ancients cast everything once dearest
 
 1 6 AUTHOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 to the living, are now the securest repository 
 for these relics. With trembling fear the sur- 
 viving friend reads the leaves no eye has ever 
 seen, save those now so firmly closed, and if, 
 after a glance, too hasty even to read them, he 
 is convinced these letters and leaves contain 
 nothing which men deem important, he throws 
 them quickly upon the glowing coals a flash 
 and they are gone. 
 
 From such flames the following leaves have 
 been saved. They were at first intended only 
 for the friends of the deceased, yet they have 
 found friends even among strangers, and, since 
 it is so to be, may wander anew in distant lands. 
 Gladly would the compiler have furnished more, 
 but the leaves are too much scattered and muti- 
 lated to be rearranged and given complete.
 
 FIRST MEMORY.
 
 FIRST MEMORY. 
 
 /'"^HILDHOOD has its secrets and its mys- 
 ^- x teries ; but who can tell or who can explain 
 them ! We have all roamed through this silent 
 wonder-wood we have all once opened our eyes 
 in blissful astonishment, as the beautiful reality 
 of life overflowed our souls. We knew not where, 
 or who, we were the whole world was ours and 
 we were the whole world's. That was an infinite 
 life without beginning and without end, with- 
 out rest and without pain. In the heart, it 
 was as clear as the spring heavens, fresh as the 
 violet's perfume hushed and holy as a Sabbath 
 morning. 
 
 What disturbs this God's-peace of the child ? 
 How can this unconscious and innocent exist- 
 ence ever cease ? What dissipates the rapture of
 
 20 FIRST MEMORY. 
 
 this individuality and universality, and suddenly 
 leaves us solitary and alone in a clouded life ? 
 
 Say not, with serious face, it is sin ! Can even 
 a child sin ? Say rather, we know not, and must 
 only resign ourselves to it. 
 
 Is it sin, which makes the bud a blossom, and 
 the blossom fruit, and the fruit dust? 
 
 Is it sin, which makes the worm a chrysalis, 
 and the chrysalis a butterfly, and the butterfly 
 dust ? 
 
 And is it sin, which makes the child- a man, 
 and the man a gray-haired man, and the gray- 
 haired man dust ? And what is dust ? 
 
 Say rather, we know not, and must only resign 
 ourselves to it. 
 
 Yet it is so beautiful, recalling the spring- 
 time of life, to look back and remember one's 
 self. Yes, even in the sultry summer, in the 
 melancholy autumn and in the cold winter of 
 life, there is here and there a spring day, and the 
 heart says : " I feel like spring." Such a day is 
 this and so I lay me down upon the soft moss
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 21 
 
 of the fragrant woods, and stretch out my weary 
 limbs, and look up, through the green foliage, 
 into the boundless blue, and think how it used 
 to be in that childhood. 
 
 Then, all seems forgotten. The first pages of 
 memory are like the old family Bible. The first 
 leaves are wholly faded and somewhat soiled with 
 handling. But, when we turn further, and come 
 to the chapters where Adam and Eve were ban- 
 ished from Paradise, then, all begins to grow 
 clear and legible. Now if we could only find the 
 title-page with the imprint and date but that is 
 irrevocably lost, and, in their place, we find only 
 the clear transcript our baptismal certificate 
 bearing witness when we were born, the names 
 of our parents and godparents, and that we were 
 not issued sine loco et anno. 
 
 But, oh this beginning ! Would there were 
 none, since, with the beginning, all thought and 
 memories alike cease. When we thus dream 
 back into childhood, and from childhood into 
 infinity, this bad beginning continually flies fur-
 
 22 FIRST MEMORY. 
 
 ther away. The thoughts pursue it and never 
 overtake it; just as a child seeks the spot where 
 the blue sky touches the earth, and runs and 
 runs, while the sky always runs before it, yet still 
 touches the earth but the child grows weary 
 and never reaches the spot. 
 
 But even since we were once there wherever 
 it may be, where we had a beginning, what do 
 we know now? For memory shakes itself like 
 the spaniel, just come out of the waves, while 
 the water runs in his eyes and he looks very 
 strangely. 
 
 I believe I can even yet remember when I 
 saw the stars for the first time. They may have 
 seen me often before, but one evening it seemed 
 as if it were cold. Although I lay in my mother's 
 lap, I shivered and was chilly, or I was fright- 
 ened. In short, something came" over me which 
 reminded me of my little Ego in no ordinary 
 manner. Then my mother showed me the 
 bright stars, and I wondered at them, and 
 thought that she had made them very beauti-
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 23 
 
 fully. Then I felt warm again, and could sleep 
 well. 
 
 Furthermore, I remember how I once lay in 
 the grass and everything about me tossed and 
 nodded, hummed and buzzed. Then there 
 came a great swarm of little, myriad-footed, 
 winged creatures, which lit upon my forehead 
 and eyes and said, "Good day." Immediately 
 my eyes smarted, and I cried to my mother, and 
 she said : " Poor little one, how the gnats have 
 stung him ! " I could not open my eyes or see 
 the blue sky any longer, but my mother had 
 a bunch of fresh violets in her hand., and it 
 seemed as if a dark-blue, fresh, spicy perfume 
 were wafted through my senses. Even now, 
 whenever I see the first violets, I remember this, 
 and it seems to me that I must close my eyes so 
 that the old dark-blue heaven of that day may 
 again rise over my soul. 
 
 Still further do I remember, how, at another 
 time, a new world disclosed itself to me more 
 beautiful than the star-world or the violet per-
 
 24 FIRST MEMORY. 
 
 fume. It was on an Easter morning, and my 
 mother had dressed me early. Before the win- 
 dow stood our old church. It was not beautiful, 
 but still it had a lofty roof and tower, and on the 
 tower a golden cross, and it appeared very much 
 older and grayer than the other buildings. I 
 wondered who lived in it, and once I looked in 
 through the iron-grated door. It was entirely 
 empty, cold and dismal. There was not even 
 one soul in the whole building, and after that I 
 always shuddered when I passed the door. But 
 on this Easter morning, it had rained early, and 
 when the sun came out in full splendor, the old 
 church with the gray sloping roof, the high win- 
 dows and the tower with the golden cross glis- 
 tened with a wondrous shimmer. All at once 
 the light which streamed through the lofty win- 
 dows began to move and glisten. It was so 
 intensely bright that one could have looked 
 within, and as I closed my eyes the light entered 
 my soul and therein everything seemed to shed 
 brilliancy and perfume, to sing and to ring. It
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 25 
 
 seemed to me a new life had commenced in 
 myself and that I was another being, and when 
 I asked my mother what it meant, she replied 
 it was an Easter song they were singing in the 
 church. What bright, holy song it was, which 
 at that time surged through my soul, I have 
 never been able to discover. It must have been 
 an old church hymn, like those which many a 
 time stirred the rugged soul of our Luther. I 
 never heard it again, but many a time even now 
 when I hear an adagio of Beethoven's, or a 
 psalm of Marcellus, or a chorus of Handel's, 
 or a simple song in the Scotch Highlands or the 
 Tyrol, it seems to me as if the lofty church win- 
 dows again glistened and the organ-tones once 
 more surged through my soul, and a new world 
 revealed itself more beautiful than the starry 
 heavens and the violet perfume. 
 
 These things I remember in my earliest child- 
 hood, and intermingled with them are my dear 
 mother's looks, the calm, earnest gaze of my 
 father, gardens and vine leaves, and soft green
 
 26 FIRST MEMORY. 
 
 turf, and a very old and quaint picture-book 
 and this is all I can recall of the first scattered 
 leaves of my childhood. 
 
 Afterwards it grows brighter and clearer. 
 Names and faces appear not only father and 
 mother, but brothers and sisters, friends and 
 teachers, and a multitude of strange people. Ah ! 
 yes, of these strange people there is so much re- 
 corded in memory.
 
 SECOND MEMORY.
 
 SECOND MEMORY. 
 
 NOT far from our house, and opposite the 
 old church with the golden cross, stood a 
 large building, even larger than the church, and 
 having many towers. They looked exceedingly 
 gray and old and had no golden 1 cross, but stone 
 eagles tipped the summits and a great white and 
 blue banner fluttered from the highest tower, di- 
 rectly over the lofty doorway at the top of the 
 steps, where, on either side, two mounted soldiers 
 stood sentinels. The building had many win- 
 dows, and behind the windows you could distin- 
 guish red silk curtains with golden tassels. Old 
 lindens encircled the grounds, which, in summer, 
 overshadowed the gray masonry with their green 
 leaves and bestrewed the turf with their fragrant 
 white blossoms. I had often looked in there, and 
 at evening when the lindens exhaled their per-
 
 30 SECOND MEMORY. 
 
 fumes and the windows were illuminated, I saw 
 many figures pass and repass like shadows. Mu- 
 sic swept down from on high, and carriages drove 
 up, from which ladies and gentlemen alighted 
 and ascended the stairs. They all looked so 
 beautiful and good ! The gentlemen had stars 
 upon their breasts, and the ladies wore fresh 
 flowers in their hair ; and I often thought, 
 Why do I not go there too? 
 
 One day my father took me by the hand and 
 said : " We are going to the castle ; but you must 
 be very polite if the Princess speaks to you, and 
 kiss her hand." 
 
 I was about six years of age and as delighted 
 as only one can be at six years of age. I had 
 already indulged in many quiet fancies about the 
 shadows which I had seen evenings through the 
 lighted windows, and had heard many good 
 things at home of the beneficence of the Prince 
 and Princess ; how gracious they were ; how much 
 help and consolation they brought to the poor 
 and sick ; and that they had been chosen by the
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 31 
 
 grace of God to protect the good and punish 
 the bad. I had long pictured to myself what 
 transpired in the castle, so that the Prince and 
 Princess were already old acquaintances whom 
 I knew as well as my nut-crackers and leaden 
 soldiers. 
 
 My heart beat quickly as I ascended the high 
 stairs with my father, and just as he was telling 
 me I must call the Princess "Highness," and the 
 Prince " Serene Highness," the folding-door 
 opened and I saw before me a tall figure with 
 brilliantly piercing eyes. She seemed to advance 
 and stretch out her hand to me. There was an 
 expression on her countenance which 1 had long 
 known, and a heavenly smile played about her 
 cheeks. I could restrain myself no longer, and 
 while my father stood at the door bowing very 
 low I knew not why my heart sprang into 
 my throat. I ran to the beautiful lady, threw my 
 arms round her neck and kissed her as I would 
 my mother. The beautiful, majestic lady will- 
 ingly submitted, stroked my hair and smiled;
 
 32 SECOND MEMORY. 
 
 but my father took my hand, led me away, and 
 said I was very rude, and that he should never 
 take me there again. I grew utterly bewildered. 
 The blood mounted to my cheeks, for I felt that 
 my father had been unjust to me. I looked at 
 the Princess as if she ought to shield me, but 
 upon her face was only an expression of mild 
 earnestness. Then I looked round upon the 
 ladies and gentlemen assembled in the room, 
 believing that they would come to my defense. 
 But as I looked, I saw that they were laughing. 
 Then the tears sprang into my eyes, and out of 
 the door, down the stairs, and past the lindens in 
 the castle yard, I rushed home, where I threw 
 myself into my mother's arms and sobbed and 
 wept. 
 
 "What has happened to you?" said she. 
 
 "Oh! mother!" I cried; "I was at the 
 Princess', and she was such a good and beautiful 
 woman, just like you, dear mother, that I had to 
 throw my arms round her neck and kiss her." 
 
 "Ah!" said my mother; "you should not
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 33 
 
 have done that, for they are strangers and high 
 dignitaries." 
 
 "And what then are strangers?" said I. 
 " May I not love all people who look upon me 
 with affectionate and friendly eyes?" 
 
 "You can love them, my son," replied my 
 mother, "but you should not show it." 
 
 " Is it then something wrong for me to love 
 people?" said I. "Why cannot *I show it?" 
 
 " Well, perhaps you are right," said she, " but 
 you must do as your father says, and when you 
 are older you will understand why you cannot 
 embrace every woman who regards you with 
 affectionate and friendly eyes." 
 
 That was a sad day. Father came home, 
 agreed I had been very uncivil. At night my 
 mother put me to bed, and I prayed, but I could 
 not sleep, and kept wondering what these strange 
 people were, whom one must not love. 
 
 Thou poor human heart ! So soon in the 
 spring are thy leaves broken and the feathers 
 3
 
 34 SECOND MEMORY. 
 
 torn from the wings ! When the spring-red of 
 life opens the hidden calyx of the soul, it per- 
 fumes our whole being with love. We learn to 
 stand and to walk, to speak and to read, but no 
 one teaches us love. It is inherent in us like 
 life, they say, and is the very deepest foundation 
 of our existence. As the heavenly bodies in- 
 cline to and attract each other, and will always 
 cling together by the everlasting law of gravita- 
 tion, so heavenly souls incline to and attract 
 each other, and will always cling together by the 
 everlasting law of love. A flower cannot blos- 
 som without sunshine, and man cannot live with- 
 out love. Would not the child's heart break in 
 despair when the first cold storm of the world 
 sweeps over it, if the warm sunlight of love from 
 the eyes of mother and father did not shine 
 upon him like the soft reflection of divine light 
 and love? The ardent yearning, which then 
 awakes in the child, is the purest and deepest 
 love. It is the love which embraces the whole 
 world, which shines resplendent wherever the
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 35 
 
 eyes of men beam upon it, which exults wher- 
 ever it hears the human voice. It is the old, 
 immeasurable love , a deep well which no plum- 
 met has ever sounded; a fountain of perennial 
 richness. Whoever knows it also knows that in 
 love there is no More and no Less ; but that he 
 who loves can only love with the whole heart, 
 and with the whole soul; with all his strength 
 and with all his will. 
 
 But, alas, how little remains of this love by 
 the time we have finished one-half of our life- 
 journey! Soon the child learns that there are 
 strangers, and ceases to be a child. The spring 
 of love becomes hidden and soon filled up. Our 
 eyes gleam no more, and heavy-hearted we pass 
 one another in the bustling streets. We scarcely 
 greet each other, for we know how sharply it cuts 
 the soul when a greeting remains unanswered, 
 and how sad it is to be sundered from those 
 whom we have once greeted, and whose hands 
 we have clasped. The wings of the soul lose 
 their plumes; the leaves of the flower fast fall
 
 36 SECOND MEMORY. 
 
 off and wither; and of this fountain of love 
 there remain but a few drops. We still call 
 these few drops love, but it is no longer the 
 clear, fresh, all-abounding child-love. It is love 
 with anxiety and trouble, a consuming flame, a 
 burning passion; love which wastes itself like 
 rain-drops upon the hot sand ; love which is a 
 longing, not a sacrifice; love which says "Wilt 
 thou be mine," not love which says, " I must be 
 thine." It is a most selfish, vacillating love. 
 And this is the love which poets sing and in 
 which young men and maidens believe; a fire 
 which burns up and down, yet does not warm, 
 and leaves nothing behind but smoke and ashes. 
 All of us at some period of life have believed 
 that these rockets of sunbeams were everlasting 
 love, but the brighter the glitter, the darker the 
 night which follows. 
 
 And then when all around grows dark, when 
 we feel utterly alone, when all men right and left 
 pass us by and know us not, a forgotten feeling 
 rises in the breast. We know not what it is, for
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 37 
 
 it is neither love nor friendship. You feel like 
 crying to him who passes you so cold and 
 strange : " Dost thou not know me ?" Then 
 one realizes that man is nearer to man than 
 brother to brother, father to son, or friend to 
 friend. How an old, holy saying rings through 
 our souls, that strangers are nearest to us. Why 
 must we pass them in silence? We know not, 
 but must resign ourselves to it. When two trains 
 are rushing by upon the iron rails and thou seest 
 a well-known eye that would recognize thee, 
 stretch out thy hand and try to grasp the hand 
 of a friend, and perhaps thou wilt understand 
 why man passes man in silence here below. 
 
 An old sage says : " I saw the fragments of a 
 wrecked boat floating on the sea. Only a few 
 meet and hold together a long time. Then 
 comes a storm and drives them east and west, 
 and here below they will never meet again. So 
 it is with mankind. Yet no one has seen the 
 great shipwreck."
 
 THIRD MEMORY.
 
 THIRD MEMORY. 
 
 THE clouds in the sky of childhood do not 
 last long, and disappear after a short, warm 
 tear-rain. I was shortly again at the castle, and 
 the Princess gave me her hand to kiss and then 
 brought her children, the young princes and 
 princesses, and we played together, as if we had 
 known each other for years. Those were happy 
 days when, after school for I was now attend- 
 ing school I could go to the castle and play. 
 We had everything the heart could wish. I 
 found playthings there which my mother had 
 shown me in the shop-windows, and which were 
 so dear, she told me, that poor people could live 
 a whole week on what they cost. When I 
 begged the Princess' permission to take them 
 home and show them to my mother, she was per- 
 fectly willing. I could turn over and over and
 
 42 THIRD MEMORY. 
 
 look for hours at a time at beautiful picture 
 books, which I had seen in the book stores with 
 my father, but which were made only for very 
 good children. Everything which belonged to 
 the young princes belonged also to me so I 
 thought, at least. Furthermore, I was not only 
 allowed to carry away what I wished, but I often 
 gave away the playthings to other children. In 
 short, I was a young Communist, in the full sense 
 of the term. I remember at one time the Prin- 
 cess had a golden snake which coiled itself 
 around her arm as if it were alive, and she gave 
 it to us for a plaything. As I was going home I 
 put the snake on my arm and thought I would 
 give my mother a real fright with it. On the 
 way, however, I met a woman who noticed the 
 snake and begged me to show it to her ; and then 
 she said if she could only keep the golden snake, 
 she could release her husband from prison with 
 it. Naturally I did not stop to think for a min- 
 ute, but ran away and left the woman alone with 
 the golden serpent-bracelet. The next day
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 43 
 
 there was much excitement. The poor woman 
 was brought to the castle and the people said she 
 had stolen it. Thereupon I grew very angry and 
 explained with holy zeal that I had given her the 
 bracelet and that I would not take it back again. 
 What further occurred I know not, but I remem- 
 ber that after that time, I showed the Princess 
 everything I took home with me. 
 
 It was a long time before my conceptions of 
 Meum and Tuum were fully settled, and at a 
 very late period they were at times confused, just 
 as it was a long time before I could distinguish 
 between the blue and red colors. The last time 
 I remember my friends laughing at me on this 
 account was when my mother gave me some 
 money to buy apples. She gave me a groschen. 
 The apples cost only a sechser, and when I gave 
 the woman the groschen, she said, very sadly as 
 it seemed to me, that she had sold nothing the 
 whole livelong day and could not give me back a 
 sechser. She wished I would buy a groschen 's 
 worth. Then it occurred to me that I also had
 
 44 THIRD MEMORY. 
 
 a sechser in my pocket, and thoroughly delighted 
 that I had solved the difficult problem, I gave it 
 to the woman and said : " Now you can give me 
 back a sechser." She understood me so little 
 however that she gave me back the groschen and 
 kept the sechser. 
 
 At this time, while I was making almost daily 
 visits to the young princes at the castle, both to 
 play as well as to study French with them, 
 another image comes up in my memory. It was 
 the daughter of the Princess, the Countess Marie. 
 The mother died shortly after the birth of the 
 child and the Prince subsequently married a sec- 
 ond time. I know not when I saw her for the 
 first time. She emerges from the darkness of 
 memory slowly and gradually at first like an 
 airy shadow which grows more and more distinct 
 as it approaches nearer and nearer, at last stand- 
 ing before my soul like the moon, which on some 
 ?tormy night throws back the cloud-veils from 
 across its face. She was always sick and suffer- 
 ing and silent, and I never saw her except reclin-
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 45 
 
 ing upon her couch, upon which two servants 
 brought her into the room and carried her out 
 again, when she was tired. There she lay in her 
 flowing white drapery, with her hands generally 
 folded. Her face was so pale and yet so mild, 
 and her eyes so deep and unfathomable, that 
 I often stood before her lost in thought and 
 looked upon her and asked myself if she was not 
 one of the " strange people " also. Many a time 
 she placed her hand upon my head and then it 
 seemed to me that a thrill ran through all my 
 limbs and that I could not move or speak, but 
 must forever gaze into her deep, unfathomable 
 eyes. She conversed very little with us, but 
 watched our sports, and when at times we grew 
 very noisy and quarrelsome, she did not com- 
 plain but held her white hands over her brow 
 and closed her eyes as if sleeping. But there 
 were days when she said she felt better, and on 
 such days she sat up on her couch, conversed 
 with us and told us curious stories. I do not 
 know how old she was at that time. She was so
 
 46 THIRD MEMORY. 
 
 helpless that she seemed like a child, and yet was 
 so serious and silent that she could not have 
 been one. When people alluded to her they 
 involuntarily spoke gently and softly. They 
 called her " the angel," and I never heard any- 
 thing said of her that was not good and lovely. 
 Often when I saw her lying so silent and help- 
 less, and thought that she would never walk 
 again in life, that there was for her neither work 
 nor joy, that they would carry her here and there 
 upon her couch until they laid her upon her 
 eternal bed of rest, I asked myself why she 
 had been sent into this world, when she could 
 have rested so gently on the bosom of the angels 
 and they could have borne her through the air 
 on their white wings, as I had seen in some 
 sacred pictures. Again I felt as if I must take 
 a part of her burden, so that she need not carry 
 it alone, but we with her. I could not tell her 
 all this for I knew it was not proper. I had an 
 indefinable feeling. It was not a desire to em- 
 brace her. No one could have done that, for it
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 47 
 
 would have wronged her. It seemed to me as if 
 I could pray from the very bottom of my heart 
 that she might be released from her burden. 
 
 One warm spring day she was brought into 
 our room. She looked exceedingly pale; but 
 her eyes were deeper and brighter than ever, 
 and she sat upon her couch and called us to her. 
 " It is my birth-day," said she, " and I was con- 
 firmed early this morning. Now, it is possible," 
 she continued as she looked upon her father 
 with a smile, " that God may soon call me to him, 
 although I would gladly remain with you much 
 longer. But if I am to leave you, I desire that 
 you should not wholly forget me ; and, therefore, 
 I have brought a ring for each of you, which you 
 must now place upon the fore-finger. As you 
 grow older you can continue to change it until it 
 fits the little finger; but you must wear it for 
 your lifetime." 
 
 With these words she took the five rings she 
 wore upon her fingers, which she drew off, one 
 after the other, with a look so sad and yet so
 
 48 THIRD MEMORY. 
 
 affectionate, that I pressed my eyes closely to 
 keep from weeping. She gave the first ring to 
 her eldest brother and kissed him, the second 
 and third to the two princesses, and the fourth 
 to the youngest prince, and kissed them all as 
 she gave them the rings. I stood near by, and, 
 looking fixedly at her white hand, saw that she 
 still had a ring upon her finger ; but she leaned 
 back and appeared wearied. My eyes met hers, 
 and as the eyes of a child speak so loudly, she 
 must have easily known my thoughts. I would 
 rather not have had the last ring, for I felt that I 
 was a stranger ; that I did not belong to her, and 
 that she was not as affectionate to me as to her 
 brothers and sisters. Then came a sharp pain 
 in my breast as if a vein had burst or a nerve 
 had been severed, and I knew not which way to 
 turn to conceal my anguish. 
 
 She soon raised herself again, placed her 
 hand upon my forehead and looked down into 
 my heart so deeply that I felt I had not a 
 thought invisible to her. She slowly drew the
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 49 
 
 last ring from her finger, gave it to me and said : 
 " I intended to have taken this with me, when I 
 went from you, but it is better you should wear 
 it and think of me when I am no longer with 
 you. Read the words engraved upon the ring: 
 'As God wills." You have a passionate heart, 
 easily moved. May life subdue but not harden 
 it." Then she kissed me as she had her brothers 
 and gave me the ring. 
 
 All my feelings I do not truly know. I had 
 then grown up to boyhood, and the mild beauty 
 of the suffering angel could not linger in my 
 young heart without alluring it. I loved her as 
 only a boy can love, and boys love with an in- 
 tensity and truth and purity which few preserve 
 in their youth and manhood ; but I believed she 
 belonged to the " strange people " to whom you 
 are not allowed to speak of love. I scarcely un- 
 derstood the earnest words she spoke to me. I 
 only felt that her soul was as near to mine as one 
 human soul can be to another. All bitterness 
 was gone from my heart. I felt myself no longer
 
 50 THIRD MEMORY. 
 
 alone, no longer a stranger, no longer shut out. 
 I was by her, with her and in her. I thought it 
 might be a sacrifice for her to give me the ring, 
 and that she might have preferred to take it to 
 the grave with her, and a feeling arose in my 
 soul which overshadowed all other feelings, and 
 I said with quivering voice : " Thou must keep 
 the ring if thou dost not wish to give it to me ; 
 for what is thine is mine." She looked at me a 
 moment surprised and thoughtfully. Then she 
 took the ring, placed it on her finger, kissed me 
 once more on the forehead, and said gently to 
 me : " Thou knowest not what thou sayest. 
 Learn to understand thyself. Then shall thou 
 be happy and make many others happy."
 
 FOURTH MEMORY.
 
 FOURTH MEMORY. 
 
 EVERY life has its years in which one pro- 
 gresses as on a tedious and dusty street of 
 poplars, without caring to know where he is. Of 
 these years nought remains in memory but the 
 sad feeling that we have advanced and only 
 grown older. While the river of life glides along 
 smoothly, it remains the same river; only the 
 landscape on either bank seems to change. But 
 then come the cataracts of life. They are firmly 
 fixed in memory, and even when we are past 
 them and far away, and draw nearer and nearer 
 to the silent sea of eternity, even then it seems 
 as if we heard from afar their rush and roar. 
 We feel that the life-force which yet remains and 
 impels us onward still has its source and supply 
 from those cataracts.
 
 54 FOURTH MEMORY. 
 
 School time was ended, the first fleeting years 
 of university life were over, and many beautiful 
 life-dreams were over also. But one of them 
 still remained : Faith in God and man. Other- 
 wise life would have been circumscribed within 
 one's narrow brain. Instead of that, a nobler 
 consecration had preserved all, and even the 
 painful and incomprehensible events of life be- 
 came a proof to me of the omnipresence of the 
 divine in the earthly. "The least important 
 thing does not happen except as God wills it." 
 This was the brief life-wisdom I had accu- 
 mulated. 
 
 During the summer holidays I returned to my 
 little native city. What joy in these meetings 
 again ! No one has explained it, but in this see- 
 ing and finding again, and in these self-memories, 
 lie the real secrets of all joy and pleasure. What 
 we see, hear or taste for the first time may be 
 beautiful, grand and agreeable, but it is too new. 
 It overpowers, but gives no repose, and the 
 fatigue of enjoying is greater than the enjoyment
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 55 
 
 itself. To hear again, years afterward, an old 
 melody, every note of which we supposed we had 
 forgotten, and yet to recognize it as an old ac- 
 quaintance ; or, after the lapse of many years, to 
 stand once more before the Sistine Madonna at 
 Dresden, and experience afresh all the emotions 
 which the infinite look of the child aroused in us 
 for years ; or to smell a flower or taste a dish again 
 which we have not thought of since childhood 
 all these produce such an intense charm that we 
 do not know which we enjoy most, the actual 
 pleasure or the old memory. So when we return 
 again, after long absence, to our birth-place, the 
 soul floats unconsciously in a sea of memories, 
 and the dancing waves dreamily toss themselves 
 upon the shores of times long passed. The bel- 
 fry clock strikes and we fear we shall be late to 
 school, and recovering from this fear feel relieved 
 that our anxiety is over. The same dog runs 
 along the street on whose account we used to go 
 far out of our way. Here sits the old huckster 
 whose apples often led us into temptation, and
 
 56 FOURTH MEMORY. 
 
 even now, we fancy they must taste better than 
 all other apples in the world, notwithstanding the 
 dust on them. There one has torn down a house 
 and built a new one. Here the old music- 
 teacher lived. He is dead and yet how beau- 
 tiful it seemed as we stood and listened on sum- 
 mer evenings under the window while the True 
 Soul, when the hours of the day were over, in- 
 dulged in his own enjoyment and played fan- 
 tasies, like the roaring and hissing engine letting 
 off the steam which has accumulated during the 
 day. Here in this little leafy lane, which seemed 
 at that time so much larger, as I was coming 
 home late one evening, I met our neighbor's 
 beautiful daughter. At that time I had never 
 ventured to look at or address her, but we school- 
 children often spoke of her and called her " the 
 Beautiful Maiden," and whenever I saw her pass- 
 ing along the street at a distance I was so happy 
 that I could only think of the time when I should 
 meet her nearer. Here in this leafy walk which 
 leads to the church-yard, I met her one evening
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 57 
 
 and she took me by the arm, although we had 
 never spoken together before, and asked me to 
 go home with her. I believe neither of us spoke 
 a word the whole way ; but I was so happy that 
 even now, after all these years, I wish it were that 
 evening, and that I could go home again, silently 
 and blissfully, with "the Beautiful Maiden." 
 
 Thus one memory follows another until the 
 waves dash together over our heads, and a deep 
 sigh swells the breast, which warns us that we 
 have forgotten to breathe in the midst of these 
 pure thoughts. Then all at once, the whole 
 dream-world vanishes, like uprisen ghosts at the 
 crowing of the cock. 
 
 As I passed by the old castle and the lindens, 
 and saw the sentinels upon their horses, how 
 many memories awakened in my soul, and how 
 everything had changed ! Many years had 
 flown since I was at the castle. The Princess 
 was dead. The Prince had given up his rule 
 and gone back to Italy, and the oldest prince, 
 with whom I had grown up, was regent. His
 
 58 FOURTH MEMORY. 
 
 companions were young noblemen and officers, 
 whose intercourse was congenial to him, and 
 whose company in our early days had often 
 estranged us. Other circumstances combined 
 to weaken our young friendship. Like every 
 young man who perceives for the first time the 
 lack of unity in the German folk- life, and the 
 defects of German rule, I had caught up some 
 phrases of the Liberal party, which sounded as 
 strangely at court as unseemly expressions in an 
 honest minister's family. In short, it was many 
 years since I had ascended those stairs, and yet 
 a being dwelt in that castle whose name I had 
 named almost daily, and who was almost con- 
 stantly present in my memory. I had long dwelt 
 upon the thought that I should never see her 
 again in this life. She was transformed into an 
 image which I felt neither did nor could exist 
 in reality She had become my good angel 
 my other self, to whom I talked instead of talk- 
 ing with myself. How she became so I could 
 not explain to myself, for I scarcely knew her,
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 59 
 
 Just as the eye sometimes pictures figures in the 
 clouds, so I fancied my imagination had con- 
 jured up this sweet image in the heaven of my 
 childhood, and a complete picture of phantasy 
 developed itself out of the scarcely perceptible 
 outlines of reality. My entire thought had invol- 
 untarily become a dialogue with her, and all that 
 was good in me, all for which I struggled, all in 
 which I believed, my entire better self, belonged 
 to her. I gave it to .her. I received it from 
 her, from her my good angel. 
 
 I had been at home but a few days, when I 
 received a letter one morning. It was written 
 in English, and came from the Countess Marie : 
 
 Dear Friend : I hear you are with us for a short 
 time. We have not met for many years, and if it is 
 agreeable to you, I should like to see an old friend 
 aeain. You will find me alone this afternoon in the 
 
 Swiss Cottage. Yours sincerely, 
 
 MARIE. 
 
 I immediately replied, also in English, that I 
 would call in the afternoon.
 
 60 FOURTH MEMORY. 
 
 The Swiss Cottage constituted a wing of the 
 castle, which overlooked the garden, and could 
 be reached without going through the castle 
 yard. It was five o'clock when I passed through 
 the garden and approached the cottage. I re- 
 pressed all emotion and prepared myself for a 
 formal meeting. I sought to quiet my good 
 angel, aid to assure her that this lady had 
 nothing to do with her. And yet I felt very 
 uneasy, and my good angel would not listen to 
 counsel. Finally I took courage, murmuring 
 something to myself about the masquerade of 
 life, and rapped on the door, which stood ajar. 
 
 There was no one in the room except a lady 
 whom I did not know, and who likewise spoke 
 English, and said the Countess would be present 
 in a moment. She then left, and I was alone, 
 and had time to look about. 
 
 The walls of the room were of rose-chestnut, 
 and over an openwork trellis, a luxuriant broad- 
 leaved ivy twined around the whole room. All 
 the tables and chairs were of carved rose-chest-
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 6 1 
 
 nut. The floor was of variegated woodwork. It 
 gave me a curious sensation to see so much that 
 was familiar in the room. Many articles from 
 our old play-room in the castle were old friends, 
 but the others were new, especially the pictures, 
 and yet they were the same as those in my Uni- 
 versity room the same portraits of Beethoven, 
 Handel and Mendelssohn, as I had selected 
 hung over the grand piano. In one corner I saw 
 the Venus di Milo, which I always regarded as 
 the masterpiece of antiquity. On the table were 
 volumes of Dante, Shakspeare, Tauler's Sermons, 
 the " German Theology," Ruckert's Poems, Ten- 
 nyson and Burns, and Carlyle's " Past and Pres- 
 ent," the very same books all of which I had 
 had but recently in my hands. I was growing 
 thoughtful, but I repressed my thoughts and was 
 just standing before the portrait of the deceased 
 Princess, when the door opened, and the same 
 two servants, whom I had so often seen in child- 
 hood, brought the Countess into the room upon 
 her couch.
 
 62 FOURTH MEMORY. 
 
 What a vision ! She spoke not a word, and 
 her countenance was as placid as the sea, until 
 the servants left the room. Then her eyes 
 sought me the old, deep, unfathomable eyes. 
 Her expression grew more animated each instant. 
 At last her whole face lit up, and she said : 
 
 "We are old friends I believe ; we have not 
 changed. I cannot say 'You,' and if I may not 
 say 'Thou,' then we must speak in English. Do 
 you understand me?" 
 
 I had not anticipated such a reception, for I 
 saw here was no masquerade here was a soul 
 which longed for another soul here was a 
 greeting like that between two friends who rec- 
 ognize each other by the glance of the eye, not- 
 withstanding their disguises and dark masks. 
 I seized the hand she held out to me, and re- 
 plied : " When we address an angel, we cannot 
 say 'You.'" 
 
 And yet how singular is the influence of the 
 forms and habits of life ! How difficult it is to 
 speak the language of nature even to the most
 
 A STOKY OF GERMAN LOVE. 63 
 
 congenial souls ! Our conversation halted, and 
 both of us felt the embarrassment of the moment. 
 I broke the silence and spoke out my thoughts : 
 " Men become accustomed to live from youth 
 up as it were in a cage, and when they are once 
 in the open air they dare not venture to use their 
 wings, fearing, if they fly, that they may stumble 
 against everything." 
 
 "Yes," replied she, "and that is very proper 
 and cannot well be otherwise. One often wishes 
 that he could live like the birds which fly in the 
 woods, and meet upon the branches and sing 
 together without being presented to each other. 
 But, my friend, even among the birds there are 
 owls and sparrows, and in life it is well that one 
 c'Hi pass them without knowing them. It is 
 sometimes with life as with poetry. As the real 
 poet can express the Truest and most Beautiful, 
 although fettered by metrical form, so man 
 should know how to preserve freedom of thought 
 and feeling notwithstanding the restraints of 
 society."
 
 64 FOURTH MEMORY. 
 
 I could not help recalling the words of 
 Platen : " That which proves itself everlasting 
 under all circumstances, told in the fetters cf 
 words, is the unfettered spirit." 
 
 "Yes," said she, with a cordial but sweetly 
 playful smile , " but I have a privilege which is 
 at the same time my burden and loneliness. I 
 often pity the young men and maidens, for they 
 cannot have a friendship or an intimacy without 
 their relatives or themselves pronouncing it love, 
 or what they call love. They lose much on this 
 account. The maiden knows not what slumbers 
 in her soul, and what might be awakened by 
 earnest conversation with a noble friend ; and 
 the young man in turn would acquire so much 
 knightly virtue if women were suffered to be the 
 distant witnesses of the inner struggles of the 
 spirit. It will not do, however, for immediately 
 love comes in play, or what they call love the 
 quick beating of the heart the stormy billows 
 of hope the delight over a beautiful face the 
 sweet sentimentality sometimes also prudent
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 65 
 
 calculation in short, all that troubles the calm 
 sea, which is the true picture of pure human 
 love " 
 
 She checked herself suddenly, and an expres- 
 sion of pain passed over her countenance. "I 
 dare not talk more to-day," said she ; " my physi- 
 cian will not allow it. I would like to hear one 
 of Mendelssohn's songs that duet, which my 
 young friend used to play years ago. Is it not 
 so?" 
 
 I could not answer, for as she ceased speak- 
 ing and gently folded her hands, I saw upon her 
 hand a ring. She wore it on her little finger 
 the ring which she had given me and I had 
 given her. Thoughts came too fast for utter- 
 ance, and I seated myself at the piano and 
 played. When I had done, I turned around 
 and said: "Would one could only speak thus 
 in tones without words!" 
 
 "That is possible," said she; "I understood 
 it all. But I must not do anything more to-day, 
 for every day I grow weaker. We must be better
 
 66 
 
 FOURTH MEMORY. 
 
 acquainted, and a poor sick recluse may cer- 
 tainly claim forbearance. We meet to-morrow 
 evening, at the same hour; shall we not?" 
 
 I seized her hand and was about to kiss it, 
 but she held my hand firmly, pressed it and 
 said: "It is better thus. Good bye."
 
 FIFTH MEMORY.
 
 FIFTH MEMORY. 
 
 IT would be difficult to describe my thoughts 
 and emotions as I went home. The soul 
 cannot at once translate itself perfectly in words, 
 and there are " thoughts without words," which 
 in every man are the prelude of supreme joy and 
 suffering. It was neither joy nor pain, only an 
 indescribable bewilderment which I felt ; thoughts 
 flew through my innermost being like meteors, 
 which shoot from heaven towards earth but are 
 extinguished before they reach the goal. As we 
 sometimes say in a dream, " I am dreaming," so 
 I said to myself " thou livest " " it is she." I 
 tried again to reflect and calm myself, and said, 
 " She is a lovely vision a very wonderful spirit." 
 At another time, I pictured the delightful even- 
 ings I should pass during the holidays. But no,
 
 70 FIFTH MEMORY. 
 
 no, this cannot be. She is everything I sought, 
 thought, hoped and believed. Here was at last 
 a human soul, as clear and fresh as a spring 
 morning. I had seen at the first glance what she 
 was and how she felt, and we had greeted and 
 recognized one another. And my good angel in 
 me, she answered me no more. She was gone 
 and I felt there was no place on earth where I 
 should find her again. 
 
 Now began a beautiful life, for I was with her 
 every evening. We soon realized that we were 
 in truth old acquaintances and that we could 
 only call each other Thou. It seemed also as if 
 we had lived near and with one another always, 
 for she manifested not an emotion that did not 
 find its counterpart in my soul, and there was no 
 thought which I uttered to which she did not 
 nod friendly assent, as much as to say : " I 
 thought so too." I had previously heard the 
 greatest master of our time and his sister extem- 
 porize on the piano, and scarcely comprehended 
 how two persons could understand and feel
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 71 
 
 themselves so perfectly and yet never, not even 
 in a single note, disturb the harmony of their 
 playing. Now it became intelligible to me. Yes, 
 now I understood for the first time that my soul 
 was not so poor and empty as it had seemed to 
 me, and that it had been only the sun that was 
 lacking to open all its germs and buds to* the 
 light. And yet what a sad and brief spring-time 
 it was that our souls experienced ! We forget in 
 May that roses so soon wither, but here every 
 evening reminded us that one leaf after another 
 was falling to the ground. She felt it before I 
 did, and alluded to it apparently without pain, 
 and our interviews grew more earnest and solemn 
 daily. 
 
 One evening, as I was about to leave, she 
 said : " I did not think I should grow so old. 
 When I gave you the ring on my confirmation 
 day I thought I should have to take my de- 
 parture from you all, very soon. And yet I 
 have lived so many years, and enjoyed so much 
 beauty and suffered so very much.' But one
 
 72 FIFTH MEMORY. 
 
 forgets that ! Now, while I feel that my de- 
 parture is near, every hour, every minute, 
 grows precious to me. Good night ! Do not 
 come too late to-morrow." 
 
 One day as I went into her room, I met an 
 Italian painter with her. She spoke Italian with 
 him, and although he was evidently more artisan 
 than artist, she addressed him with such amia- 
 bility and modesty, with such respect even, one 
 could not avoid recognizing that nobility of soul 
 which is the true nobility of birth. When the 
 painter had taken his leave, she said to me : "I 
 wish to show you a picture which will please 
 you. The original is in the gallery at Paris. I 
 read a description of it, and have had it copied 
 by the Italian." She showed me the painting, 
 and waited my opinion. It was a picture of a 
 man of middle age, in the old German costume. 
 The expression was dreamy and resigned, and so 
 characteristic that no one could doubt this man 
 once lived. The whole tone of the picture in 
 the foreground was dark and brownish; but in
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 73 
 
 the background was a landscape, and on the 
 horizon the first gleams of daybreak appeared. 
 I could discover nothing special in the picture, 
 and yet it produced a feeling of such satisfaction 
 that one might have tarried to look at it for 
 hours at a time. " There is nothing like a genu- 
 ine human face," said I ; " Raphael himself could 
 not have imagined a face like this." 
 
 " No," said she. " But now I will tell you 
 why I wished to have the picture. I read that 
 no one knew the artist, nor whom the picture 
 represents. But it is very clearly a philosopher 
 of the Middle Ages. Just such a picture I 
 wanted for my gallery, for you are aware that 
 no one knows the author of the ' German The- 
 ology,' and moreover, that we have no picture of 
 him. I wished to try whether the picture of an 
 Unknown by an Unknown would answer for our 
 German theologian, and if you have no objec- 
 tions we will hang it here between the 'Albi- 
 genses ' and the ' Diet of Worms,' and call it the 
 'German Theologian.'"
 
 74 FIFTH MEM OR Y. 
 
 " Good," said I ; " but it is somewhat too 
 vigorous and manly for the Frankforter." 
 
 " That may be," replied she. " But for a suf- 
 fering and dying life like mine, much consolation 
 and strength may be derived from his book. I 
 thank him much, for it disclosed to me for the 
 first time the true secret of Christian doctrine 
 in all its simplicity. I felt that I was free to 
 believe or disbelieve the old teacher, whoever he 
 may have been, for his doctrines had no external 
 constraint upon me; at last it seized upon me 
 with such power that it seemed to me I knew 
 for the first time what revelation was. It is 
 precisely this fact that bars so many out from 
 true Christianity, namely: that its doctrines con- 
 front us as revelation before revelation takes 
 place in ourselves. This has often given me 
 much anxiety ; not that I had ever doubted the 
 truth ,and divinity of our religion, but I felt I had 
 no right to a belief which others had given me, 
 and that what I had learned and received when 
 a child, without comprehending, did not belong
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 75 
 
 to me. One can believe for us as little as one 
 can live and die for us." 
 
 "Certainly," said I; "therein lies the cause 
 of many hot and bitter struggles ; that the teach- 
 ings of Christ, instead of winning our hearts 
 gradually and irresistibly, as they won the hearts 
 of the apostles and early Christians, confront us 
 from the earliest childhood as the infallible law 
 of a mighty church, and demand of us an un- 
 conditional submission, which they call faith. 
 Doubts arise sooner or later in the breast of 
 every one who has the power of thinking and 
 reverence for the truth ; and then even when we 
 are on the right road, to overcome our faith, 
 the terrors of doubt and unbelief arise and dis- 
 turb the tranquil development of the new life." 
 
 "I read recently in an English work," she 
 interrupted, " that truth makes revelation, and 
 not revelation truth. This perfectly expressed 
 what I found in reading the ' German Theology.' 
 I read the book, and I felt the power of its 
 truths so overwhelmingly that I was compelled
 
 76 FIFTH MEMORY. 
 
 to submit to it. The truth was revealed to me ; 
 or rather, I was revealed to myself, and I felt 
 for the first time what belief meant. The truth 
 which had long slumbered in my soul belonged 
 to me, but it was the word of the unknown 
 teacher which filled me with light, illuminated 
 my inner vision, and brought out my indistinct 
 presentiments in fuller clearness before my soul. 
 When I had thus experienced for the first time 
 how the human soul can believe, I read the 
 Gospels as if they, too, had been written by an 
 unknown man, and banished the thought as well 
 as I could that they were an inspiration from 
 the Holy Ghost to the apostles, in some won- 
 derful manner; that they had been endorsed by 
 the councils and proclaimed by the church as 
 the supreme authority of the alone-saving belief. 
 Then, for the first time, I understood what Chris- 
 tian faith and revelation were." 
 
 "It is wonderful," said I, "that the theolo- 
 gians have not broken down all religion, and 
 they will succeed yet, if the believers do not
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 77 
 
 seriously confront them and say : ' Thus far but 
 no farther.' Every church must have its ser- 
 vants, but there has been as yet no religion 
 which the Priests, the Brahmins, the Schamins, 
 the Bonzes, the Lamas, the Pharisees, or the 
 Scribes have not corrupted and perverted. They 
 wrangle and dispute in a language unintelligible 
 to nine-tenths of their congregations, and instead 
 of permitting themselves to be inspired by the 
 apostles, and of inspiring others with their inspi- 
 ration, they construct long arguments to show 
 that the Gospels must be true, because they 
 were written by inspired men. But this is only 
 a makeshift for their own unbelief. How can 
 they know that these men were inspired in a 
 wonderful manner, without ascribing to them- 
 selves a still more wonderful inspiration ? There- 
 fore they extend the gift of inspiration to the 
 fathers of the church; they attribute to them 
 those very things which the majority have incor- 
 porated in the canons of the councils ; and there 
 again, when the question arises how we know
 
 78 FIFTH MEMORY. 
 
 that of fifty bishops twenty-six were inspired 
 and twenty-four were not, they finally take the 
 last desperate step, and say that infallibility and 
 inspiration are inherent in the heads of the 
 church down to the present day, through the 
 laying on of hands, so that infallibility, majority 
 and inspiration make all our convictions, all 
 resignation, all devout intuitions, superfluous. 
 And yet, notwithstanding all these connecting 
 links, the first question returns in all its simpli- 
 city: How can B know that A is inspired, if B 
 is not equally, or even more, inspired than A? 
 For it is of more consequence to know that A 
 was inspired than for one's self to be inspired." 
 
 "I have never comprehended this so clearly 
 myself," said she. "But I have often felt how 
 difficult it must be to know whether one loves 
 who shows not a sign of love that could not be 
 imitated. And, again, I have thought that no 
 one could know it unless he knew love himself, 
 and that he could only believe in the love of 
 another so far as he believed in his own love.
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 79 
 
 As with the gift of love so is it with the gift of 
 the Holy Spirit. They upon whom it descended 
 heard a rushing from heaven as of a mighty 
 wind, and there appeared to them cloven tongues 
 like as of fire. But the rest were either amazed 
 and perplexed, or they made sport of them and 
 said : ' They are full of sweet wine.' 
 
 " Still, as I said to you, it is the ' German 
 Theology ' to which I am indebted for learning 
 to believe in my belief, and what will seem a 
 weakness to many, strengthened me the most; 
 namely, that the old master never stops to dem- 
 onstrate his propositions rigidly, but scatters 
 them like a sower, in the hope that some grains 
 will fall upon good soil and bear fruit a thousand 
 fold. So our Divine Master never attempted to 
 prove his doctrines, for the perfect conviction of 
 truth disdains the form of a demonstration." 
 
 " Yes," I interrupted her, for I could not help 
 thinking of the wonderful chain of proof in 
 Spinoza's ' Ethics,' " the straining after demon- 
 stration by Spinoza gives me the impression that
 
 8o FIFTH MEMOR Y. 
 
 this acute thinker could not have believed in his 
 own doctrines with his whole heart, and that he 
 therefore felt the necessity of fastening every 
 mesh of his net with the utmost care. " Still," I 
 continued, " I must acknowledge I do not share 
 this great admiration for the ' German Theology,' 
 although I owe the book many a doubt. To me 
 there is a lack of the human and the poetical in 
 it, and of warm feeling and reverence for reality 
 altogether. The entire mysticism of the four- 
 teenth century is wholesome as a preparative, but 
 it first reaches solution in the divinely holy and 
 divinely courageous return to real life, as was 
 exemplified by Luther. Man must at some time 
 in his life recognize his nothingness. He must 
 feel that he is nothing of himself, that his exist- 
 ence, his beginning, his everlasting life are rooted 
 in the superearthly and incomprehensible. That 
 is the returning to God which in reality is never 
 concluded on earth but yet leaves behind in the 
 soul a divine home sickness, which never again 
 ceases. But man cannot ignore the creation as the
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 8 1 
 
 Mystics would. Although created out of nothing, 
 that is, through and out of God, he cannot of his 
 own power resolve himself back into this noth- 
 ingness. The self-annihilation of which Tauler 
 so often speaks is scarcely better than the sink- 
 ing away of the human soul in Nirvana, as the 
 Buddhists have it. Thus Tauier says : ' That 
 if he by greater reverence and love could reach 
 the highest existence in non-existence, he would 
 willingly sink from his height into the deepest 
 abyss.' But this annihilation of the creature was 
 not the purpose of the Creator since he made it. 
 ' God is transformed in man,' says Augustine, 
 'not man in God.' Thus mysticism should be 
 only a fire-trial which steels the soul but does not 
 evaporate it like boiling water in a kettle. He 
 who has recognized the nothingness of self ought 
 to recognize this self as a reflection of the actual 
 divine. The ' German Theology ' says : 
 
 [,,2Ba nil u gef(ofen it, ba it nidjt roar 
 roeen, iinb Ijat fein roeSen anber ban in bem ool; 
 fomen, unber e it ein jufal ober ein glat unb ein 
 
 6
 
 82 FIFTH MEMORY. 
 
 rf)tn, ber nicfjt roesen it ober nic)t n>een r)at anber, 
 ban in bem-feroer, ba ber glat u flufSet, al in ber 
 Siinnen ober in einem lted)te." ] 
 
 "What has flown out is not real substance 
 and has no other reality except in the perfect; 
 but it is an incident or a glare or a shimmer, 
 which is no substance, and has no other reality, 
 except in the fire from which a glare proceeds, 
 as in the sun or a light." 
 
 " What is emitted from the divine, though it 
 be only like the reflection from the fire, still has 
 the divine reality in itself, and one might almost 
 ask what were the fire without glow, the sun with- 
 out light, or the Creator without the creature? 
 These are questions of which it is said very 
 truthfully : 
 
 [ ,,2Beldj menfdje unb roeldje crearur begert ju erfos 
 rcn unb ju roifSen ben fjetmltdjen rat unb rattten 
 gotte, ber begert ntrf)t anberS benne at Slbam ret 
 unb ber boe gett." ] 
 
 " What man or creature desires to learn and 
 to know the secret counsel and will of God
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 83 
 
 desires nothing else but what Adam did and the 
 evil spirit. 
 
 " For this reason, it should be enough for us 
 to feel and to appear that we are a reflection of 
 the divine until we are divine. No one should 
 place under a bushel or extinguish the divine 
 light which illuminates us, but let it beam out, 
 that it may brighten and warm all about it. Then 
 one feels a living fire in his veins, and a higher 
 consecration for the struggle of life. The most 
 trivial duties remind us of God. The earthly 
 becomes divine, the temporal eternal, and our 
 entire life a life in God. God is not eternal 
 repose. He is everlasting life, which Angelus 
 Silesius forgets when he says : ' God is without 
 will.' 
 
 ' We pray : ' Thy will my Lord and God be done,' 
 And lo, He has no will! He is an eternal silence.'" 
 
 She listened to me quietly, and, after a mo- 
 ment's reflection, said: "Health and strength 
 belong to your faith; but there are life-weary
 
 84 FIFTH MEMORY. 
 
 souls, who long for rest and sleep, and feel so 
 lonely that when they fall asleep in God, they 
 miss the world as little as the world misses them. 
 It is a foretaste of divine rest to them when they 
 can wrap themselves in the divine ; and this they 
 can do, since no tie binds them fast to earth, and 
 no wish troubles their hearts except the wish for 
 rest. 
 
 'Rest is the highest good, and were God not rest, 
 Then would I avert my gaze even from Him.' 
 
 "You do the German theologian an injustice, 
 It is true he teaches the nothingness of thtf 
 external life, but he does not wish to see it anni- 
 hilated. Read me the twenty-eighth chapter." 
 
 I took the book and read, while she closed 
 her eyes and listened : 
 
 [ ,,Unb roc bte ooretnunge gerf)idjt in ber nwljrfjeit 
 unb roeSentltd) toirt, ba tet rjor&af ber inner menSrfje 
 in ber eimmg unberoegltdj imb got Iet ben ufSern 
 mencen f)er unb bar fcenjegt roerben von bieSem 311 
 bem. j>a muf imb ol in unb geSdfjefjen, ba[ ber 
 ufer menrf)e Sprtdjt unb e3 ouc in ber roarljeit alo
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 85 
 
 it, ,,ic roil roeber in nocfj nit in, roeber leben ober 
 Sterben, roifSen ober nicfjt rotfSen, tun ober tafSen, 
 unb atte ba biSem gltrf; tt, unber atte, ba ba 
 muf iinb ol in unb ged)efjen, ba bin id) bereit 
 unb gefjorSam ju, e i in libenber nrie ober in 
 tuenber mtSe." llnb aloe ^at ber u[er men^ fetn 
 njarumbe ober geucf>, Sunber aUeine bent enrigen 
 roiffen genuf ju Sin. 3Ban ba roirt befannt i:J ber 
 roarljeit, ba ber inner mend)e ten Sol unbemeglic^ 
 unb ber ufer menc^ ntuf unb ol beroegt roerben, 
 unb ^at ber inner menSdj in Siner beroeglifeit ein 
 roarumb, bo it anber nid^t bann ein muf; unb 
 ol;tn, georbnet oon bem eroigen roitten. Unb roa 
 got Selber ber mend^ mere ober it, ba it e alo. 
 >a merfet man rool in $rito. Oud^ roa ba in 
 gotltdjem unb u gotlid^em lied)te it, ba it nit geit* 
 lidje ^od^fart noc^ unactame fri^eit ober frie gemute, 
 gunber ein gruntloSe bemutigfeit unb ein niber ge; 
 gc^tagen unb ein geSunfen betrubet gemut, unb atte 
 orbenligfeit unb rebeligfeit, glid)eit unb roar^eit, 
 frtbe unb genugamfeit, unb atte ba, ba affen 
 tugenben ju gefyort, ba mu[ ba Sin. 2Ba e anberS 
 it, ba it im nit rerf)t, al oor gefprocfjen ift. 3Ban 
 red;t al bie ober ba ju bier einung nit ge^elfen 
 ober gebtenen fan, alo it oud) nicfjteS, ba e geirren 
 ober geljinbern mag, benn affetne ber menSd) mit
 
 86 FIFTH MEMORY. 
 
 Sinetn eigen written, ber tut im bien grofSen d)aben. 
 )a Sol man nri|3en." ] 
 
 "And when the union takes place in truth 
 and becomes real, then the inner man stands 
 henceforth immovable in the union, and God 
 permits the outer man to be driven hither and 
 thither from this to that. It must and shall be 
 and happen, that the outer man says and is so 
 also in truth 'I will neither be nor not be, 
 neither live nor die, neither know nor not know, 
 neither do nor leave undone and everything 
 which is similar to this, but I am ready and 
 obedient to do everything, which must and shall 
 be done, be it passively or actively.' And thus 
 has the outer man no question or desire, but to 
 satisfy only the Eternal Will. When this will be 
 known in truth, that the inner man shall stand 
 immovable, and that the outer man shall and 
 must be moved, the inner man has a why and 
 wherefore of his moving, which is nothing but 
 an ' it must and shall be ' ordered by the Eternal 
 Will. And if God himself were or is the man, 
 it would be so. This is well seen in Christ. 
 And what in the Divine Light is and from the 
 Divine Light, has neither spiritual pride nor
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 87 
 
 careless license nor an independent spirit but 
 a great humility, and a broken and contrite 
 heart, and all propriety and honesty, justice 
 and truth, peace and happiness, all that be- 
 longs to all virtues, it must have. When it is 
 otherwise, then he is not happy, as has been 
 said. When this does not help to this union, 
 then there is nothing which may hinder it but 
 man alone with his own will, which does him 
 such great harm. That, one ought to know." 
 
 " This is sufficient," said she ; " I believe we 
 understand each other now. In another place, 
 our unknown friend says still more unmistakably 
 that no man is passive before death, and that the 
 glorified man is like the hand of God, which 
 does nothing of itself except as God wills ; or, 
 like a house in which God dwells. A God- 
 possessed man feels this perfectly, but does not 
 speak of it. He treasures his life in God like 
 a love secret. It often seems to me like that 
 silver poplar before my window. It is perfectly 
 still at evening, and not a leaf trembles or stirs. 
 When the morning breeze rustles and tosses
 
 88 FIFTH MEMOR Y. 
 
 every leaf, the trunk with its branches stands still 
 and immovable, and when autumn comes, though 
 every leaf which once rustled falls to the ground 
 and withers, the trunk waits for a new spring." 
 
 She had lived so deep a life in her world that 
 I did not wish to disturb it. I had but just re- 
 leased myself with difficulty from the magic 
 circle of these thoughts, and scarcely knew 
 whether she had not chosen the better part 
 which could not be taken away from her ; while 
 we have so much trouble and care. 
 
 Thus every evening brought its new conversa- 
 tion, and with each evening, some new phase of 
 her fathomless mind disclosed itself. She kept 
 no secret from me. Her talk was only thinking 
 and feeling aloud, and what she said must have 
 dwelt with her many long years, for she poured 
 out her thoughts as freely as a child that picks 
 its lap full of flowers and then sprinkles them 
 upon the grass. I could not disclose my soul to 
 her as freely as she did to me, and this oppressed 
 and pained me. Yet how few can, with those
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 89 
 
 continual deceptions imposed upon us by society, 
 called manners, politeness, consideration, pru- 
 dence, and worldly wisdom, which make our 
 entire life a masquerade ! How few, even when 
 they would, can regain the complete truth of 
 their existence ! Love itself dares not speak its 
 own language and maintain its own silence, but 
 must learn the set phrases of the poet and ideal- 
 ize, sigh and flirt instead of freely greeting, 
 beholding and surrendering itself. I would most 
 gladly have confessed and said to her: "You 
 know me not," but I found that the words were 
 not wholly true. Before I left, I gave her a vol- 
 ume of Arnold's poems, which I had had a short 
 time, and begged her to read the one called " The 
 Buried Life." It was my confession, and then I 
 kneeled at her couch and said "Good Night." 
 " Good Night," said she, and laid her hand upon 
 my head, and again her touch thrilled through 
 every limb and the dreams of childhood uprose 
 in my soul. I could not go, but gazed into her 
 deep unfathomable eyes until the peace of her soul
 
 90 ' FIFTH MEMOR Y. 
 
 completely overshadowed mine. Then I arose 
 and went home in silence and in the night I 
 dreamed of the silver poplar around which the 
 wind roared but not a leaf stirred on its 
 branches. 
 
 THE BURIED LIFE. 
 
 Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet 
 Behold, with tears my eyes are wet ; 
 I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. 
 
 Yes, yes, we know that we can jest ; 
 We know, we know that we can smile; 
 But there's a something in this breast 
 To which thy light words bring no rest, 
 And thy gay smiles no anodyne. 
 
 Give me thy hand, and hush awhile, 
 And turn those limpid eyes on mine, 
 And. let me read there, love, thy inmost souL 
 
 Alas, is even love too weak 
 To unlock the heart, and let it speak ? 
 Are even lovers powerless to reveal 
 To one another what indeed they feel? 
 I knew the mass of men concealed 
 Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 
 
 They would by other men be met 
 
 With blank indifference, or with blame reproved ; 
 
 I knew they lived and moved, 
 
 Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest 
 
 Of men and alien to themselves and yet, 
 
 The same heart beats in every human breast. 
 
 But we, my love does a like spell benumb 
 Our hearts our voices? must we too be dumb? 
 
 Ah! well for us, if even we, 
 Even for a moment, can yet free 
 Our hearts and have our lips unchained: 
 For that which seals them hath been deep ordained. 
 Fate which foresaw 
 How frivolous a baby man would be, 
 By what distractions he would be possessed, 
 How he would pour himself in every strife, 
 And well-nigh change his own identity, 
 That it might keep from his capricious play 
 His genuine self, and force him to obey, 
 Even in his own despite, his being's law, 
 Bade through the deep recesses of our breast 
 The unregarded River of our Life, 
 Pursue with indiscernible flow its way; 
 And that we should not see 
 The buried stream, and seem to be
 
 92 FIFTH MEMORY. 
 
 Eddying about in blind uncertainty, 
 Though driving on with it eternally. 
 
 But often, in the world's most crowded streets, 
 But often in the din of strife, 
 There rises an unspeakable desire 
 After the knowledge of our buried life; 
 A thirst to spend our fire and restless force 
 In tracking out our true original course; 
 A longing to inquire 
 
 Into the mystery of this heart that beats 
 So wild, so deep, in us ; to know 
 Whence our thoughts come, and where they go. 
 And many a man in his own breast then delves, 
 But deep enough, alas, none ever mines : 
 And we have been on many thousand lines, 
 And we have shown on each, talent and power, 
 But hardly have we, for one little hour, 
 Been on our own line, have we been ourselves; 
 Hardly had skill to utter one of all 
 The nameless feelings that course through our breast, 
 But they course on forever unexpressed. 
 And long we try in vain to speak and act 
 Our hidden self, and what we say and do 
 Is eloquent, is well but 'tis not true. 
 
 And then we will no more be racked
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 93 
 
 With inward striving, and demand 
 
 Of all the thousand nothings of the hour 
 
 Their stupefying power ; 
 
 Ah! yes, and they benumb us at our call: 
 
 Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn, 
 
 From the soul's subterranean depth upborne, 
 
 As from an infinitely distant land, 
 
 Come airs and floating echoes, and convey 
 
 A melancholy into all our day. 
 
 Only but this is rare 
 When a beloved hand is laid in ours, 
 When, jaded with the rush and glare 
 Of the interminable hours, 
 Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, 
 When our world-deafened ear 
 Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed,-r- 
 A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, 
 And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again : 
 The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, 
 And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we 
 
 know; 
 
 A man becomes aware of his life's flow, 
 And hears its winding murmur, and he sees 
 The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. 
 
 And there arrives a lull in the hot race
 
 94 
 
 FIFTH MEMORY. 
 
 Wherein he doth forever chase 
 That flying and elusive shadow, Rest; 
 An air of coolness plays upon his face, 
 And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. 
 
 And then he thinks he knows 
 The Hills where his life rose, 
 And the Sea where it goes
 
 SIXTH MEMORY,
 
 SIXTH MEMORY. 
 
 EARLY the next morning, there was a knock 
 at the door, and my old doctor, the Hofrath, 
 entered. He was the friend, the body-and-soul- 
 guardian of our entire little village. He had 
 seen two generations grow up. Children whom 
 he had brought into the world had in turn be- 
 come fathers and mothers, and he treated them 
 as his children. He himself was unmarried, and 
 even in his old age was strong and handsome to 
 look upon. I never knew him otherwise than as 
 he stood before me at that time ; his clear blue 
 eyes gleaming under the bushy brows, his flow- 
 ing white hair still full of youthful strength, curl- 
 ing and vigorous. I can never forget, also, his 
 shoes, with their silver buckles, his white stock- 
 ings, his brown coat, which always looked new, 
 
 and yet seemed to be old, and his cane, which 
 7
 
 98 SIXTH MEMORY. 
 
 was the same I had seen standing by my bedside 
 in childhood, when he felt my pulse and pre- 
 scribed my medicines. I had often been sick, 
 but it was always faith in this man which made 
 me well again. I never had the slightest doubt 
 of his ability to cure me, and when my mother 
 said she must send for the Hofrath that I might 
 get well again, it was as if she had said she must 
 send for the tailor to mend my torn trousers. 
 I had only to take the medicine, and I felt that 
 I must be well again. 
 
 "How are you, my child?" said he, as he 
 entered the room. "You are not looking per- 
 fectly well. You must not study too much. But 
 I have little time to-day to talk, and only came 
 to tell you, you must not go to see the Countess 
 Marie again. I have been with her all night, 
 and it is your fault. So be careful, if her life is 
 dear to you, that you do not go again. She 
 must leave here as soon as possible, and be 
 taken into the country. It would be best for
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 99 
 
 you also to travel for a long time. So good 
 morning, and be a good child." 
 
 With these words, he gave me his hand, 
 looked at me affectionately in the eyes, as if he 
 would exact the promise, and then went on his 
 way to look after his sick children. 
 
 I was so astonished that another had pene- 
 trated so deeply into the secrets of my soul, and 
 that he knew what I did not know myself, that 
 when I recovered from it he had already been 
 long upon the street. An agitation began to 
 seize me, as water, which has long been over 
 the fire without stirring, suddenly bubbles up, 
 boils, heaves and rages until it overflows. 
 
 Not see her again ! I only live when I am 
 with her. I will be calm; I will not speak a 
 word to her ; I will only stand at her window as 
 she sleeps and dreams. But not to see her 
 again ! Not to take one farewell from her ! She 
 knows not, they cannot know, that I love her. 
 Surely I do not love her I desire nothing, I 
 hope for nothing, my heart never beats more
 
 loo SIXTH MEMORY. 
 
 quietly then when I am with her. But I must 
 feel her presence I must breathe her spirit 
 I must go to her ! She waits for me. Has des- 
 tiny thrown us together without design? Ought 
 I not to be her consolation, and ought she not 
 to be my repose ? Life is not a sport. It does 
 not force two souls together like the grains of 
 sand in the desert, which the sirocco whirls 
 together and then asunder. We should hold fast 
 the souls which friendly fate leads to us, for 
 they are destined for us, and no power can tear 
 them from us if we have the courage to live, to 
 struggle, and to die for them. She would despise 
 me if I deserted her love at the first roll of the 
 thunder, as it were in the shadow of a tree, under 
 which I have dreamed so many happy hours. 
 
 Then I suddenly grew calm, and heard only 
 the words " her love ;" they reverberated through 
 all the recesses of my soul like an echo, and I 
 was terrified at myself. " Her love," and how 
 had I deserved it ? She hardly knows me, and 
 even if she could love me v must I not confess
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. IOI 
 
 to her I do not deserve the love of an angel ? 
 Every thought, every hope which arose in my 
 soul, fell back like a bird which essays to soar 
 into the blue sky and does not see the wires 
 which restrain it. And yet, why all this bliss- 
 fulness, so near and so unattainable? Cannot 
 God work wonders? Does He not work won- 
 ders every morning? Has He not often heard 
 my prayer when it importuned him, and would 
 not cease, until consolation and help came to 
 the weary one ? These are not earthly blessings 
 for which we pray. It is only that two souls, 
 which have found and recognized each other, 
 may be allowed to finish their brief life -journey, 
 arm in arm, and face to face ; that I may be a 
 support to her in suffering, and that she may be 
 a consolation and precious burden to me until 
 we reach the end. And if a still later spring 
 were promised to her life, if her burdens were 
 taken from her Oh, what blissful scenes crowded 
 upon my vision ! The castle of her deceased 
 mother, in the Tyrol, belonged to her. There,
 
 102 SIXTH MEMORY. 
 
 on the green mountains, in the fresh mountain 
 air, among a sturdy and uncorrupted people, far 
 away from the hurly-burly of the world, its cares 
 and its struggles, its opinion and its censure, 
 how blissfully we could await the close of life, 
 and silently fade away like the evening-red! 
 Then I pictured the dark lake, with the dancing 
 shimmer of waves, and the clear shadows of dis- 
 tant glaciers reflected in it ; I heard the lowing 
 of cattle and the songs of the herdsmen ; I saw 
 the hunters with their rifles crossing the mount- 
 ains, and the old and young gathering together 
 at twilight in the village ; and, to crown all, I saw 
 her passing along like an angel of peace in bene- 
 diction, and I was her guide and friend. " Poor 
 fool!" I cried out, "poor fool! Is thy heart 
 always to be so wild and so weak ? Be a man. 
 Think who thou art, and how far thou art from 
 her. She is a friend. She gladly reflects her- 
 self in another's soul, but her childlike trust and 
 candor at best only show that no deeper feeling 
 lives in her breast for thee. Hast thou not, on
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 103 
 
 many a clear summer's night, wandering alone 
 through the beech groves, seen how the moon 
 sheds its light upon all the branches and leaves, 
 how it brightens the dark, dull water of the pool 
 and reflects itself clearly in the smallest drops ? 
 In like manner she shines upon this dark life, 
 and thou may'st feel her gentle radiance re- 
 flected in thy heart but hope not for a warmer 
 glow!" 
 
 Suddenly an image approached me as it were 
 from life ; she stood before me, not like a mem- 
 ory but as a vision, and I realized for the first 
 time how beautiful she was. It was not that 
 beauty of form and face which dazzles us at the 
 first sight of a lovely maiden, and then fades 
 away as suddenly as a blossom in spring. It was 
 much more the harmony of her whole being, the 
 reality of every emotion, the spirituality of ex- 
 pression, the perfect union of body and soul 
 which blesses him so who looks upon it. The 
 beauty which nature lavishes so prodigally does 
 not bring any satisfaction, if the person is not
 
 104 SIXTH MEMORY. 
 
 adapted to it and. as it were deserves and over- 
 comes it. On the other hand, it is offensive, as 
 when we look upon an actress striding along the 
 stage in queenly costume, and notice at every 
 step how poorly the attire fits her, how little it 
 becomes her. True beauty is sweetness, and 
 sweetness is the spiritualizing of the gross, the 
 corporeal and the earthly. It is the spiritual 
 presence which transforms ugliness into beauty. 
 The more I looked upon the vision which stood 
 before me, the more I perceived, above all else, 
 the majestic beauty of her person and the soul- 
 ful depths of her whole being. Oh, what happi- 
 ness was near me! And was this all to be 
 shown the summit of earthly bliss and then be 
 thrust out into the flat, sandy wastes of existence? 
 Oh, that I had never known what treasures the 
 earth conceals! Once to love, and then to be 
 forever alone ! Once to believe, and then forever 
 to doubt ! Once to see the light, and then for- 
 ever to be blinded! In comparison with this
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 105 
 
 rack, all the torture-chambers of man are insig- 
 nificant. 
 
 Thus rushed the wild chase of my thoughts 
 farther and farther away until at last all was 
 silent. The confused sensations gradually col- 
 lected and settled. This repose and exhaustion 
 they call meditation, but it is rather an inspection 
 one allows time for the mixture of thoughts 
 to crystallize themselves according to eternal laws, 
 and regards the process like an observing chem- 
 ist ; and the elements having assumed a form, we 
 often wonder that they, as well as ourselves, are 
 so entirely different from what we expected. 
 
 When I awoke from my abstraction, my first 
 words were, " I must away." I immediately sat 
 down and wrote the Hofrath that I should travel 
 for fourteen days and submit entirely to him. 
 I easily made an excuse to my parents, and at 
 night I was on my v/ay to the Tyrol.
 
 SEVENTH MEMORY
 
 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 WANDERING, arm in arm with a friend, 
 through the valleys and over the mount- 
 ains of the Tyrol, one sips life's fresh air and 
 enjoyment ; but to travel the same road solitary 
 and alone with your thoughts is time and trouble 
 lost. Of what interest to me are the green 
 mountains, the dark ravines, the blue lake, and 
 the mighty cataracts ? Instead of contemplating 
 them they look at me and wonder among them- 
 selves at this solitary being. It smote me to the 
 heart that I had found no one in all the world 
 who loved me more than all others. With such 
 thoughts I awoke every morning, and they 
 haunted me all the day like a song which one 
 cannot drive away. When I entered the inn at 
 night and sat down wearied, and the people in 
 the room watched me, and wondered at the
 
 110 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 solitary wanderer, it often urged me out into the 
 night again, where no one could see I was alone. 
 At a late hour I would steal back, go quietly up 
 to my room and throw myself upon my hot bed, 
 and the song of Schubert's would ring through 
 my soul until I went to sleep : " Where thou art 
 not, is happiness." At last the sight of men, 
 whom I continually met laughing, rejoicing and 
 .exulting in this glorious nature, became so intol- 
 erable that I slept by day, and pursued my jour- 
 ney from place to place in the clear moonlight 
 nights. There was at least one emotion which 
 dispelled and dissipated my thoughts: it was 
 fear. Let any one attempt to scale mountains 
 alone all night long in ignorance of the way 
 where the eye, unnaturally strained, beholds dis- 
 tant shapes it cannot solve where the ear, with 
 tnorbid acuteness, hears sounds without knowing 
 whence they come where the foot suddenly 
 stumbles, it may be over a root which forces its 
 way through the rocks, or on a slippery path 
 which the waterfall has drenched with its spray
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. Ill 
 
 and besides all this, a disconsolate waste in 
 the heart, no memory to cheer us, no hope to 
 which we may cling let any one attempt this, 
 and he will feel the cold chill of night both out- 
 wardly and inwardly. The first fear of the 
 human heart arises from God forsaking us; but 
 life dissipates it, and mankind, created after the 
 image of God, consoles us in our solitariness. 
 When even this consolation and love, however, 
 forsake us, then we feel what it means to be 
 deserted by God and man, and nature with her 
 silent face terrifies rather than consoles us. 
 Even when we firmly plant our feet upon the 
 solid rocks, they seem to tremble like the mists 
 of the sea from which they once slowly emerged. 
 When the eye longs for the light, and the moon 
 rises behind the firs, reflecting their tapering 
 tops against the bright rock opposite, it appears 
 to us like the dead hand of. a clock which was 
 once wound up, and will some*day cease to 
 strike. There is no retreat for the soul, which 
 feels itself alone and forsaken even among the
 
 112 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 stars, or in the heavenly world itself. One 
 thought brings us a little consolation : the repose, 
 the regularity, the immensity, and the unavoida- 
 bleness of nature. Here, where the waterfall 
 has clothed the gray rocks on either side with 
 green moss, the eye suddenly recognizes a blue 
 forget-me-not in the cool shade. It is one of 
 millions of sisters now blossoming along all the 
 rivulets and in all the meadows of earth, and 
 which have blossomed ever since the first morn- 
 ing of creation shed its entire inexhaustible 
 wealth over the world. Every vein in its leaves, 
 every stamen in its cup, every fibre of its roots, 
 is numbered, and no power on earth can make 
 the number more or less. Still more, when 
 we strain our weak eyes and, with superhuman 
 power, cast a more searching glance into the 
 secrets of nature, when the microscope discloses 
 to us the silent laboratory of the seed, the bud 
 and the blosspm, do we recognize the infinite, 
 ever-recurring form in the most minute tissues 
 and cells, and the eternal unchangeableness of
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 113 
 
 Nature's plans in the most delicate fibre. Could 
 we pierce still deeper, the same form-world would 
 reveal itself, and the vision would lose itself as 
 in a hall hung with mirrors. Such an infinity as 
 this lies hidden in this little flower. If we look 
 up to the sky, we see again the same system 
 the moon revolving around the planets, the 
 planets around suns, and the suns around new 
 suns, while to the straining eye the distant star- 
 nebulae themselves seem to be a new and beau- 
 tiful world. Reflect then how these majestic 
 constellations periodically revolve, that the sea- 
 sons may change, that the seed of this forget* 
 me-not may shed itself again and again, the 
 cells open, the leaves shoot out, and the blos- 
 soms decorate the carpet of the meadow; and 
 look upon the lady-bug which rocks itself in the 
 blue cup of the flower, and whose awakening 
 into life, whose consciousness of existence, whose 
 living breath, are a thousand-fold more wonder- 
 ful than the tissue of the flower, or the dead 
 mechanism of the heavenly bodies. Consider
 
 114 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 that thou also belongest to this infinite warp 
 and woof, and that thou art permitted to com- 
 fort thyself with the infinite creatures which 
 revolve and live and disappear with thee. But 
 if this All, with its smallest and its greatest, with 
 its wisdom and its power, with the wonders of its 
 existence, and the existence of its wonders, is the 
 work of a Being in whose presence thy soul does 
 not shrink back, before whom thou fallest pros- 
 trate in a feeling of weakness and nothingness, 
 and to whom thou risest again in the feeling of 
 His love and mercy if thou really feelest that 
 something dwells in thee more endless and eter- 
 nal than the cells of the flowers, the spheres of 
 the planets, and the life of the insect if thou 
 recognizest in thyself as in a shadow the reflec- 
 tion of the Eternal which illuminates thee if 
 thou feelest in thyself, and under and above 
 thyself, the omnipresence of the Real, in which 
 thy seeming becomes being, thy trouble, rest> 
 thy solitude, universality then thou knowest 
 the One to Whom thou criest in the dark night
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 115 
 
 of life : " Creator and Father, Thy will be done 
 in Heaven as upon earth, and as on earth so 
 also in me." Then it grows bright in and about 
 thee. The daybreak disappears with its cold 
 mists, and a new warmth streams through shiver- 
 ing nature. Thou hast found a hand which 
 never again leaves thee, which holds thee when 
 the mountains tremble and moons are extin- 
 guished. Wherever thou may'st be, thou art with 
 Him, and He with thee. He is the eternally 
 near, and His is the world with its flowers and 
 thorns, His is man with his joys and sorrows. 
 "The least important thing does not happen 
 except as God wills it." 
 
 With such thoughts I went on my way. At 
 one time, all was well with me ; at another, 
 troubled ; for even when we have found rest and 
 peace in the lowest depths of the soul, it is still 
 hard to remain undisturbed in this holy solitude. 
 Yes, many forget it after they find it and scarcely 
 know the way which leads back to it. 
 
 Weeks had flown, and not a syllable had
 
 Il6 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 reached me from her. " Perhaps she is dead 
 and lies in quiet rest," was another song forever 
 on my tongue, and always returning as often as 
 I drove it from me. It was not impossible, for 
 the Hofrath had told me she suffered with heart 
 troubles, and that he expected to find her no 
 more among the living every morning he visited 
 her. Could I ever forgive myself if she had left 
 this world and I had not taken farewell of her, 
 nor told her at the last moment how I loved her? 
 Must I not follow until I found her again in 
 another life, and heard from her that she loved 
 me and that I was forgiven ? How mankind 
 defers from day to day the best it can do, and 
 the most beautiful things it can enjoy, without 
 thinking that every day may be the last one, and 
 that lost time is lost eternity! Then all the 
 words of the Hofrath, the last time I saw him, 
 recurred to me, and I felt that I had only re- 
 solved to make my sudden journey to show my 
 strength to him, and that it would have been a 
 still more difficult task to have confessed my
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 117 
 
 weakness and remained. It was clear to me that 
 it was my simple duty to return to her imme- 
 diately and to bear everything which Heaven 
 ordained. But as soon as I had laid the plan 
 for my return journey, I suddenly remembered 
 the words of the Hofrath : " As soon as possible 
 she must go away and be taken into the coun- 
 try." She had herself told me that she spent 
 the most of her time, in summer, at her castle. 
 Perhaps she was there, in my immediate vicinity ; 
 in one day I could be with her. Thinking was 
 doing ; at daybreak I was off, and at evening 1 
 stood at the gate of the castle. 
 
 The night was clear and bright. The mount- 
 ain peaks glistened in the full gold of the sun- 
 set and the lower ridges were bathed in a rosy 
 blue. A gray mist rose from the valleys which 
 suddenly glistened when it swept up into the 
 higher regions, and then like a cloud-sea rolled 
 heavenwards. The whole color-play reflected 
 itself in the gently agitated breast of the dark 
 lake from whose shores the mountains seemed to
 
 Il8 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 rise and fall, so that only the tops of the trees 
 and the peaks of the church steeples and the 
 rising smoke from the houses defined the limits 
 which separated the reality of the world from 
 its reflection. My glance, however, rested upon 
 only one spot the old castle where a present- 
 iment told me I should find her again. No light 
 could be seen in the windows, no footstep broke 
 the silence of the night. Had my presentiment 
 deceived me ? I passed slowly through the outer 
 gateway and up the steps until I stood at the 
 fore-court of the castle. Here I saw a sentinel 
 pacing back and forwards, and I hastened to the 
 soldier to inquire who was in the castle. " The 
 Countess and her attendants are here," was the 
 brief reply, and in an instant I stood at the main 
 portal and had even pulled the bell. Then, for 
 the first time, my action occurred to me. No 
 one knew me. I neither could nor dare say who 
 \ was. I had wandered for weeks about the 
 mountains, and looked like a beggar. What 
 should I say? For whom should I ask? There
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 119 
 
 was little time for consideration, however, for the 
 door opened and a servant in princely livery 
 stood before me, and regarded me with amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 I asked if the English lady, who I knew 
 would never forsake the Countess, was in the 
 castle, and when the servant replied in the affirm- 
 ative, I begged for paper and ink and wrote her 
 I was present to inquire after the health of the 
 Countess. 
 
 The servant called an attendant, who took the 
 letter away. I heard every step in the long halls, 
 and every moment I waited, my position became 
 more unendurable. The old family portraits of 
 the princely house hung upon the walls knights 
 in full armor, ladies in antique costume, and in 
 the center a lady in the white robes of a nun 
 with a red cross upon her breast. At any other 
 time I might have looked upon these pictures 
 and never thought that a human heart once beat 
 in their breasts. But now it seemed to me I 
 could suddenly read whole volumes in their feat-
 
 120 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 ures, and that all of them said to me : " We also 
 have once lived and suffered." Under these iron 
 armors secrets were once hidden as even now in 
 my own breast. These white robes and the red 
 cross are real proofs that a battle was fought here 
 like that now raging in my own heart. Then I 
 fancied all of them regarded me with pity, and 
 a loftier haughtiness rested on their features as 
 if they would say, Thou dost not belong to us. 
 I was growing uneasy every moment, when sud- 
 denly a light step dissipated my dream. The 
 English lady came down the stairs and asked me 
 to step into an apartment. I looked at her 
 closely to see if she suspected my real emotions ; 
 but her face was perfectly calm, and without 
 manifesting the slightest expression of curiosity 
 or wonder, she said in measured tones, the 
 Countess was much better to-day and would see 
 me in half an hour. 
 
 When I heard these words, I felt like the 
 good swimmer who has ventured far out into 
 the sea, and first thinks of returning when his
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 121 
 
 arms have begun to grow weary. He cleaves 
 the waves with haste, scarcely venturing to 
 cast a glance at the distant shore, feeling 
 with every stroke that his strength is failing 
 and that he is making no headway, until at 
 last, purposeless and cramped, he scarcely has 
 any realization of his position; then suddenly 
 his foot touches the firm bottom, and his arm 
 hugs the first rock on the shore. A fresh re- 
 ality confronted me, and my sufferings were a 
 dream. There are but few such moments in 
 the life of man, and thousands have never 
 known their rapture. The mother whose child 
 rests in her arms for the first time, the father 
 whose only son returns from war covered with 
 glory, the poet in whom his countrymen exult, 
 the youth whose warm grasp of the hand is 
 returned by the beloved being with a still 
 warmer pressure they know what it means 
 when a dream becomes a reality. 
 
 At the expiration of the half hour, a ser- 
 vant came and conducted me through a long
 
 122 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 suite of rooms, opened a door, and in the fad- 
 ing light of the evening I saw a white figure, 
 and above her a high window, which looked 
 out upon the lake and the shimmering mount- 
 ains. 
 
 "How singularly people meet!" she cried out 
 in a clear voice, and every word was like a cool 
 fain-drop on a hot summer's day. 
 
 " How singularly people meet, and how sin- 
 gularly they lose each other," said I ; and there- 
 upon I seized her hand, and realized that we 
 were together again. 
 
 "But people are to blame if they lose each 
 other," she continued; and her voice, which 
 seemed always to accompany her words, like 
 music, involuntarily modulated into a tenderer 
 key. 
 
 "Yes, that is true," I replied; "but first tell 
 me, are you well, and can I talk with you ?" 
 
 " My dear friend," said she, smiling, " you 
 know I am always sick, and if I say that I feel 
 well, I do so for the sake of my old Hofrath ;
 
 A STOXY OF GERMAN LOVE. 123 
 
 for he is firmly convinced that my entire life 
 since my first year is due to him and his skill. 
 Before I left the Court-residence I caused him 
 much anxiety, for one evening my heart sud- 
 denly ceased beating, and I experienced such 
 distress that I thought it would never beat 
 again. But that is past, and why should we 
 recall it ? Only one thing troubles me. I have 
 hitherto believed I should some time close my 
 eyes in perfect repose, but now I feel that my 
 sufferings will disturb and embitter my depart- 
 ure from life." Then she placed her hand 
 upon her heart, and said : " But tell me, where 
 have you been, and why have I not heard from 
 you all this time? The old Hofrath has given 
 me so many reasons for your sudden departure, 
 that I was finally compelled to tell him I did 
 not believe him and at last he gave me the 
 most incredible of all reasons, and counselled 
 what do you suppose?" 
 
 "He might seem untruthful," I interrupted, 
 so that she should net explain the reason, " and
 
 124 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 yet, perhaps he was only too truthful. But 
 this also is past, and why should we recall it?" 
 "No, no, my friend," said she, "why call it 
 past ? I told the Hofrath, when he gave me the 
 last reason for your sudden departure, that I 
 understood neither him nor you. I am a poor 
 sick, forsaken being, and my earthly existence 
 is only a slow death. Now if Heaven sends 
 me a few souls who understand me, or love me, 
 as the Hofrath calls it, why then should it dis- 
 turb their joy or mine? I had been reading 
 my favorite poet, the old Wordsworth, when 
 the Hofrath made his acknowledgment, and 
 I said : ' My dear Hofrath, we have so many 
 thoughts and so few words that we must ex- 
 press many thoughts in every word. Now if 
 one who does not know us understood that our 
 young friend loved me, or I him, in such man- 
 ner as we suppose Romeo loved Juliet and 
 Juliet Romeo, you would be entirely right in 
 saying it should not be so. But is it not true 
 that you love me also, my old Hofrath, and
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 125 
 
 that I love you, and have loved you for many 
 years? And has it not sometimes occurred to 
 you that I have neither been past remedy nor 
 unhappy on that account? Yes, my dear Ho- 
 frath, I will tell you still more I believe you 
 have an unfortunate love for me, and are jeal- 
 ous of our young friend. Do you not come 
 every morning and inquire how I am, even 
 when you know I am very well ? Do you not 
 bring me the finest flowers from your garden ? 
 Did you not oblige me to send you my portrait, 
 and perhaps I ought not to disclose it did 
 you not come to my room last Sunday and think 
 I was asleep? I was really sleeping at least 
 I could not stir myself. I saw you sitting at 
 my bedside for a long time, your eyes stead- 
 fastly fixed upon me, and I felt your glances 
 playing upon my face like sunbeams. At last 
 your eyes grew weary, and I perceived the 
 great tears falling from them. You held your 
 face in your hands, and loudly sobbed : Marie, 
 Marie ! Ah, my dear Hofrath, our young friend
 
 125 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 has never done that, and yet you have sent him 
 away.' As I thus talked with him, half in jest 
 and half in earnest, as I always speak, I per- 
 ceived that I had hurt the old man's feelings. 
 He became perfectly silent, and blushed like 
 a child. Then I took the volume of Words- 
 worth's poems which I had been reading, and 
 said : ' Here is another old man whom I love, 
 and love with my whole heart, who understands 
 me, and whom I understand, and yet I have 
 never seen him, and shall never see him on 
 earth, since it is so to be. Now I will read 
 you one of his poems, that you may see how 
 one can love, and that love is a silent benedic- 
 tion which the lover lays upon the head of the 
 beloved, and then goes on his way in raptur- 
 ous sorrow.' Then I read to him Wordsworth's 
 ' Highland Girl ;' and now, my friend, place the 
 lamp nearer, and read the poem to me, for it 
 refreshes me every time I hear it. A spirit 
 breathes through it like the silent, everlasting 
 evening-red, which stretches its arms in love
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 127 
 
 and blessing over the pure breast of the snow- 
 covered mountains." 
 
 As her words thus gradually and peacefully 
 filled my soul, it at last grew still and solemn in 
 my breast again; the storm was over, and hei 
 image floated like the silvery moonlight upon 
 the gently rippling waves of my love this 
 world-sea which rolls through the hearts of all 
 men, and which each calls his own while it is 
 an all-animating pulse-beat of the whole human 
 race. I would most gladly have kept silent 
 like Nature as it lay before our view without, 
 and ever grew stiller and darker: But she 
 gave me the book, and I read : 
 
 Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 
 Of beauty is thy earthly dower! 
 Twice seven consenting years have shed 
 Their utmost bounty on thy head : 
 And these gray rocks, that household lawn, 
 Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn, 
 This fall of water that doth make 
 A murmur near the silent lake,
 
 128 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 This little bay; a quiet road 
 That holds in shelter thy abode 
 In truth, together do ye seem 
 Like something fashioned in a dream ; 
 Such forms as from their covert peep 
 When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
 But, O fair creature ! in the light 
 Of common day, so heavenly bright, 
 I bless thee, vision as thou art, 
 I bless thee with a human heart ; 
 God shield thee to thy latest years! 
 Thee neither know I, nor thy peers; 
 And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 
 
 With earnest feeling I shall pray 
 For thee when I am far away : 
 For never saw I mien or face, 
 In which more plainly I could trace 
 Benignity and home-bred sense 
 Ripening in perfect innocence. 
 Here scattered, like a random seed, 
 Remote from men, thou dost not need 
 The embarrassed look of shy distress, 
 And maidenly shamefacedness : 
 Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
 The freedom of a mountaineer:
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE, 129 
 
 A face with gladness overspread ! 
 Soft smiles, by human kindness bred! 
 And seemliness complete, that sways 
 Thy courtesies, about thee plays ; 
 With no restraint, but such as springs 
 From quick and eager visitings 
 Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
 Of thy few words of English speech: 
 A bondage sweetly brooked, a strife 
 That gives thy gestures grace and life! 
 So have I, not unmoved in mind, 
 Seen birds of tempest-loving kind 
 Thus beating up against the wind. 
 
 What hand but would a garland culi 
 For thee who art so beautiful? 
 O happy pleasure! here to dwell 
 Beside thee in some heathy dell; 
 Adopt your homely ways and dress, 
 A shepherd, thou a shepherdess : 
 But I could frame a wish for thee 
 More like a grave reality: 
 Thou art to me but as a wave 
 Of the wild sea ; and I would have 
 Some claim upon thee, if I could, 
 Though but of common neighborhood, 
 9
 
 130 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 What joy to hear thee, and to see! 
 Thy elder brother I would be, 
 Thy father anything to thee ! 
 
 Now thanks to heaven! that of its grace 
 Hath led me to this lonely place. 
 Joy have I had ; and going hence 
 I bear away my recompense. 
 In spots like these it is we prize 
 Our memory, feel that she hath eyes: 
 Then why should I be loth to stir? 
 I feel this place was made for her ; 
 To give new pleasure like the past, 
 Continued long as life shall last. 
 Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, , 
 Sweet Highland Girl, from thee to part; 
 For I, methinks, till I grow old, 
 As fair before me shall behold, 
 As I do now, the cabin small, 
 The lake, the bay, the waterfall, 
 And thee, the spirit of them all! 
 
 I had finished, and the poem had been to me 
 like a draught of the fresh spring-water which I 
 had sipped so often of late as it dropped from 
 the cup of some large green leaf.
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 131 
 
 Then I heard her gentle voice, like the first 
 tone of the organ, which wakens us from our 
 dreamy devotion, and she said: 
 
 " Thus I desire you to love me, and thus the 
 old Hofrath loves me, and thus in one way or 
 another we should all love and believe in each 
 other. But the world, although I scarcely know 
 it, does not seem to understand this love and 
 faith, and, on this earth, where we could have 
 lived so happily, men have made existence very 
 wretched. 
 
 "It must have been otherwise of old, else 
 how could Homer have created the lovely, 
 wholesome, tender picture of Nausikaa? Nau- 
 sikaa loves Ulysses at the first glance. She says 
 at once to her female friends : ' Oh, that I could 
 call such a man my spouse, and that it were his 
 destiny to remain here.' She was even too 
 modest to appear in public at the same time 
 with him, and she says, in his presence, that if 
 she should bring such a handsome and majestic 
 stranger home, the people would say, she may
 
 132 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 have taken him for a husband. How simple 
 and natural all this is! But when she heard 
 that he was going home to his wife and children, 
 no murmur escaped her. She disappears from 
 our sight, and we feel that she carried the pic- 
 ture of the handsome and majestic stranger a 
 long time afterward in her breast, with silent and 
 joyful admiration. Why do not our poets know 
 this love this joyful acknowledgment, this calm 
 abnegation? A later poet would have made a 
 womanish Werter out of Nausikaa, for the reason 
 that love with us is nothing more than the pre- 
 lude to the comedy, or the tragedy, of marriage. 
 Is it true there is no longer any other love? 
 Has the fountain of this pure happiness wholly 
 dried up? Are men only acquainted with the 
 intoxicating draught, and no longer with the 
 invigorating well-spring of love ?" 
 
 At these words the English poet occurred to 
 me, who also thus complains:
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 133 
 
 From heaven if this belief 'be sent, 
 
 If such be nature's holy plan, 
 Have I not reason to lament 
 
 What man has made of man. 
 
 "Yet, how happy the poets are," said she. 
 " Their words call the deepest feelings into exist- 
 ence in thousands of mute souls, and how often 
 their songs have become a confession of the 
 sweetest secrets! Their heart beats in the 
 breasts of the poor and the rich. The happy 
 sing with them, and the sad weep with them. 
 But I cannot feel any poet so completely my 
 own as Wordsworth. I know many of my friends 
 do not like him. They say he is not a poet. 
 But that is exactly why I like him; he avoids all 
 the hackneyed poetical catch-words, all exagger- 
 ation, and everything comprehended in Pegasus- 
 flights. He is true and does not everything 
 lie in this one word ? He opens our eyes to the 
 beauty which lies under our feet like the daisy 
 in the meadow. He calls everything by its true 
 name. He never intends to startle, deceive, or
 
 134 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 dazzle any one. He seeks no admiration for 
 himself. He only shows mankind how beautiful 
 everything is which man's hand has not yet 
 spoiled or broken. Is not a dew-drop on a 
 blade of grass more beautiful than a pearl set in 
 gold? Is not a living spring, which gushes up 
 before us, we know not whence, more beautiful 
 than all the fountains of Versailles ? Is not his 
 Highland Girl a lovelier and truer expression of 
 real beauty than Goethe's Helena, or Byron's 
 Haidee? And then the plainness of his lan- 
 guage, and the purity of his thoughts ! Is it not 
 a pity that we have never had such a poet? 
 Schiller could have been our Wordsworth, had 
 he had more faith in himself than in the old 
 Greeks and Romans. Our Ruckert would come 
 the nearest to him, had he not also sought con- 
 solation and home under Eastern roses, away 
 from his poor Fatherland. Few poets have the 
 courage to be just what they are. Wordsworth 
 had it; and as we gladly listen to great men, 
 even in those moments when they are not
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 135 
 
 inspired, but, like other mortals, quietly cherish 
 their thoughts, and patiently wait the moment 
 that will disclose new glimpses into the infinite, 
 so have I also listened gladly to Wordsworth 
 himself, in his poems, which contain nothing 
 more than any one might have said. The 
 greatest poets allow themselves rest. In Homer 
 we often read a hundred verses without a single 
 beauty, and just so in Dante ; while Pindar, whom 
 all admire so much, drives me to distraction 
 with his ecstacies. What would I not give to 
 spend one summer on the lakes; visit with 
 Wordsworth all the places to which he has given 
 names; greet all the trees which he has saved 
 from the axe; and only once watch a far-off 
 sunset with him, which he describes as only 
 Turner could have painted." 
 
 It was a peculiarity of hers that her voice 
 never dropped at the close of her talk, as with 
 most people ; on the contrary, it rose and always 
 ended, as it were, in the broken seventh chord. 
 She always talked up, never down, to people.
 
 136 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 The melody of her sentences resembled that of 
 ths child when it says: "Can't I, father?" There 
 was something beseeching in her tones, and it 
 was well-nigh impossible to gainsay her. 
 
 " Wordsworth," said I, " is a dear poet, and a 
 still dearer man to me, and as one often has a 
 more beautiful, wide-spread, and stirring outlook 
 from a little hill which he ascends without effort, 
 than when he has clambered up Mont Blanc 
 with difficulty and weariness, so it seems to me 
 with Wordsworth's poetry. At first, he often 
 appeared commonplace to me, and I have fre- 
 quently laid down his poems unable to under- 
 stand how the best minds of England to-day can 
 cherish such an admiration for him. The con- 
 viction has grown upon me that no poet whom 
 his nation, or the intellectual aristocracy of his 
 people, recognize as a poet, should remain un- 
 enjoyed by us, whatever his language. Admira- 
 tion is an art which we must learn. Many 
 Germans say Racine does not please them. The 
 Englishman says, 'I do not understand Goethe.'
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 137 
 
 The Frenchman says Shakespeare is a boor. 
 What does all this amount to? Nothing more 
 than the child who says it likes a waltz better 
 than a symphony of Beethoven's. The art con- 
 sists in discovering and understanding what each 
 nation admires in its great men. He who seeks 
 beauty will eventually find it, and discover that 
 the Persians are not entirely deceived in their 
 Hafiz, nor the Hindoos in their Kalidasa. We 
 cannot understand a great man all at once. It 
 takes strength, effort, and perseverance, and it is 
 singular that what pleases us at first sight seldom 
 captivates us any length of time. 
 
 "And yet," she continued, "there is some- 
 thing common to all great poets, to all true 
 artists, to all the world's heroes, be they Persian 
 or Hindoo, heathen or Christian, Roman or Ger- 
 man; it is I hardly know what to call it it 
 is the Infinite which seems to lie behind them, a 
 far away glance into the Eternal, an apotheosis 
 of the most trifling and transitory things. Goethe,
 
 138 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 the grand heathen, knew the sweet peace which 
 comes from Heaven; and when he sings: 
 
 On every mountain-height 
 
 Is rest. 
 O'er each summit white 
 
 Thou feelest 
 Scarcely a breath. 
 
 The bird songs are still from each bough ; 
 Only wait, soon shalt thou 
 Rest too, in death. 
 
 does not an endless distance, a repose which 
 earth cannot give, disclose itself to him above 
 the fir-clad summits ? This background is never 
 wanting with Wordsworth. Let the carpers say 
 what they will, it is nevertheless only the super- 
 earthly, be it ever so obscure, which charms and 
 quiets the human heart. Who has better under- 
 stood this earthly beauty than Michel Angelo? 
 but he understood it, because it was to him 
 a reflection of superearthly beauty. You know 
 his sonnet:
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 139 
 
 [La forza d'un bel volto al ciel mi sprona 
 
 (Ch'altro in terra non e che mi diletti), 
 
 E vivo ascendo tra gli spirti eletti ; 
 
 Grazia ch'ad uom mortal raro si dona. 
 Si ben col suo Fattor 1'opra consuona, 
 
 Ch'a lui mi levo per divin concetti ; 
 
 E quivi informo i pensier tutti e i detti ; 
 
 Ardendo, amando per gentil persona. 
 Onde, se mai da due begli occhi il guardo 
 
 Torcer non so, conosco in lor la luce 
 
 Che mi mostra la via, ch'a Dio mi guide; 
 E se nel lume loro acceso io ardo, 
 
 Nel nobil foco mio dolce riluce 
 
 La gioja che nel cielo eterna ride."] 
 
 'The might of one fair face sublimes my love, 
 For it hath weaned my heart from low desires ; 
 Nor death I heed nor purgatorial fires. 
 Thy beauty, antepast of joys above 
 Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve; 
 For, Oh ! how good, how beautiful must be 
 The God that made so good a thing as thee, 
 So fair an image of the Heavenly Dove. 
 Forgive me if I cannot turn away 
 From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven,
 
 140 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 For they are guiding stars, benignly given 
 To tempt my footsteps to the upward way; 
 And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, 
 I live and love in God's peculiar light." 
 
 She was exhausted and silent, and how could I 
 disturb that silence ? When human hearts, after 
 friendly interchange of thoughts feel calmed and 
 quieted, it is as if an angel had flown through 
 the room and we heard the gentle flutter of wings 
 over our heads. As my gaze rested upon her, 
 her lovely form seemed illuminated in the twi- 
 light of the summer evening, and her hand, 
 which I held in mine, alone gave me the con- 
 sciousness of her real presence. Then suddenly 
 a bright refulgence spread over her countenance. 
 She felt it, opened her eyes and looked upon me 
 wonderingly. The wonderful brightness of her 
 eyes, which the half-closed eyelids covered as 
 with a veil, shone like the lightning. I looked 
 around and at last saw that the moon had arisen 
 in full splendor between two peaks opposite the 
 castle, and brightened the lake and the village
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 141 
 
 with its friendly smiles. Never had I seen Na- 
 ture, never had I seen her dear face so beautiful, 
 never had such holy rest settled down upon my 
 soul. "Marie," said I, "in this resplendent mo- 
 ment, let me, just as I am, confess my whole 
 love. Let us, while we feel so powerfully the 
 nearness of the superearthly, unite our souls in 
 a tie which can never again be broken. What- 
 ever love may be, Marie, I love you and I feel, 
 Marie, yqu are mine for I am thine." 
 
 I knelt before her, but ventured not to look 
 into her eyes. My lips touched her hand and I 
 kissed it. At this she withdrew her hand from 
 me, slowly at first and then quickly and decided- 
 ly, and as I looked at her an expression of pain 
 was on her face. She was silent for a time, but 
 at last she raised herself and said with a deep 
 sigh: 
 
 " Enough for to-day. You have caused me 
 pain, but it is my fault. Close the window. I 
 feel a cold chill coming over me as if a strange 
 hand were touching me. Stay with me but no,
 
 142 SEVENTH MEMORY. 
 
 you must go. Farewell ! Sleep well ! Pray that 
 the peace of God may abide with us. We see 
 each other again shall we not? To-morrow 
 evening I await you." 
 
 Oh, where all at once had this heavenly rest 
 flown? I saw how she suffered, and all that I 
 could do was to quickly hurry away, summon 
 the English lady and then go alone in the dark- 
 ness of night to the village. Long time I wan- 
 dered back and forth about the lake* long my 
 gaze strayed to the lighted window where I had 
 just been. Finally, the last light in the castle 
 was extinguished. The moon mounted higher 
 and higher, and every pinnacle and projection 
 and decoration on the lofty walls grew visible in 
 the fairy-like illumination. Here was I all alone 
 in the silent night. It seemed to -me my brain 
 had refused its office, for no thought came to an 
 end and I only felt I was alone on this earth, 
 that it contained no soul for me. The earth 
 was like a coffin, the black sky a funeral pall, 
 and I scarcely knew whether I was living or had
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 143 
 
 long been dead. Then I suddenly looked up to 
 the stars with their blinking eyes, which went 
 their way so quietly and it seemed to me that 
 they were only for the lighting and consolation 
 of men, and then I thought of two heavenly stars 
 which had risen in my dark heaven so unex- 
 pectedly, and a thanksgiving rang through my 
 breast a thanksgiving for the love of my angel
 
 LAST MEMORY,
 
 LAST MEMORY. 
 
 THE sun was already looking into my win, 
 dow over the mountains when I awoke. 
 Was it the same sun which looked upon us the 
 evening before with lingering gaze, like a de- 
 parting friend, as if it would bless the union 
 of our souls, and which set like a lost hope? 
 It shone upon me now, like a child which 
 bursts into our room with beaming glance to 
 wish us good morning on a joyful holiday. 
 And was I the same man who, only a few 
 hours before, had thrown himself upon his bed, 
 broken in body and spirit? Immediately I felt 
 once more the old life-courage and trust in 
 God and myself, which quickened and ani- 
 mated my soul like the fresh morning breeze. 
 What would become of man without sleep? 
 We know not where this nightly messenger
 
 LAST MEMORY. 
 
 leads us ; and when he closes our eyes at night 
 who can assure us that he will open them 
 again in the morning that he will bring us 
 to ourselves? It required courage and faith 
 for the first man to throw himself into the 
 arms of this unknown friend; and were there 
 not in our nature a certain helplessness which 
 forces us to submission, and compels us to 
 have faith in all things we are to believe, I 
 doubt whether any man, notwithstanding all his 
 weariness, could close his eyes of his own free 
 will and enter into this unknown dream-land. 
 The very consciousness of our weakness and 
 our weariness gives us faith in a higher power, 
 and courage to resign ourselves to the beauti- 
 ful system of the All, and we feel invigorated 
 and refreshed when, in waking or in sleeping, 
 we have loosened, even for a short time only, 
 the chains which bind our Eternal Self to oui 
 temporal Ego. 
 
 What had appeared to me, only yesterday, 
 dark as an evening cloud flying overhead, be-
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 149 
 
 came instantly clear. We belonged to one 
 another, that I felt; be it as brother and sis- 
 ter, father and child, bridegroom and bride, we 
 must remain together now and forever. It only 
 concerned us to find the right name for that 
 which we in our stammering speech call Love. 
 
 " Thy elder brother I would be, 
 Thy father anything to thee." 
 
 It was this "anything" for which a name must 
 be found, for the world now recognizes nothing 
 as nameless. She had told me herself that she 
 loved me with that pure all-human love, out 
 of which springs all other love. Her shudder- 
 ing, her uneasiness, when I confessed my full 
 love to her, were still incomprehensible to me, 
 but it could no longer shatter my faith in our 
 love. Why should we desire to understand all 
 that takes place in other human natures, when 
 there is so much that is incomprehensible in 
 our own? After all, it is the inconceivable 
 which generally captivates us, whether in na-
 
 150 LAST MEMORY. 
 
 ture, in man, or in our own breasts. Men 
 whom we understand, whose motives we see 
 before us like an anatomical preparation, leave 
 us cold, like the characters in most of our 
 novels. Nothing spoils our delight in life and 
 men more than this ethic rationalism which 
 insists upon clearing up everything, and illu- 
 minating every mystery of our inner being. 
 There is in every person a something that is 
 inseparable we call it fate, the suggestive 
 power or character and he knows neither 
 himself nor mankind, who believes that he can 
 analyze the deeds and actions of men without 
 taking into account this ever-recurring prin- 
 ciple. Thus I consoled myself on all those 
 points which had troubled me in the evening; 
 and at last no streak of cloud obscured the 
 heaven of the future. 
 
 In this frame of mind I stepped out of the 
 close house into the open air, when a mes- 
 senger brought a letter for me. It was from 
 the Countess, as I saw by the beautiful, deli-
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 151 
 
 cate handwriting. I breathlessly opened it I 
 looked for the most blissful tidings man can 
 expect. But all my -hopes were immediately 
 shattered. The letter contained only a request 
 not to visit her to-day, as she expected a visit 
 at the castle from the Court Residence. No 
 friendly word no news of her health only 
 at the close, a postscript : " The Hofrath will 
 be here to-morrow and the next day." 
 
 Here were two days torn out at once from 
 the book of life. If they could only be com- 
 pletely obliterated but no, they hang over me 
 like the leaden roof of a prison. They must 
 be lived. I could not give them away as a 
 charity to king, or beggar, who would gladly 
 have sat two days longer upon his throne, or 
 on his stone at the church door. I remained 
 in this abstraction for a long time; but then I 
 thought of my morning prayer, and how I said 
 to myself there was no greater unbelief than 
 despondency how the smallest and greatest 
 in life are part of one great divine plan, to
 
 152 LAST MEMORY, 
 
 which we must submit, however hard it may 
 be. Like a rider who sees a precipice before 
 him, I drew in the reins. "Be it so, since it 
 must be!" I cried out; "but God's earth is not 
 the place for complaints and lamentations. Is 
 it not a happiness to hold in my hand these 
 lines which she has written? and is not the 
 hope of seeing her again in a short time a 
 greater bliss than I have ever deserved? 'Al- 
 ways keep the head above water/ say all good 
 life-swimmers. As well sink at once as allow 
 the water to run into your eyes and throat." 
 If it is hard for us, amid these little ills of life, 
 to keep God's providence continually in view, 
 and if we hesitate, perhaps rightly, in every 
 struggle, to step out of the common-places of 
 life into the presence of the divine, then life 
 ought to appear, to us at least, an art, if not 
 a duty. What is more disagreeable than the 
 child who behaves ungovernably and grows 
 dejected and angry at every little loss and 
 pain? On the other hand, nothing is more
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 153 
 
 beautiful than the child in whose tearful eyes 
 the sunshine of joy and innocence soon beams 
 again, like the flower, which quivers and trem- 
 bles in the spring shower, and soon after blos- 
 soms and exhales its fragrance, as the sun dries 
 the tears upon its cheeks. 
 
 A good thought speedily occurred to me, that 
 I could live both these days with her, notwith- 
 standing fate. For a long time I had intended 
 to write down the dear words she had said, and 
 the many beautiful thoughts she had confided to 
 me ; and so the days passed away in memory of 
 the many charming hours spent together, and in 
 the hope of a still more beautiful future, and I 
 was by her and with her, and lived in her, and 
 felt the nearness of her spirit and her love more 
 than I had ever felt them when I held her hand 
 in mine. 
 
 How dear to me now are these leaves ! How 
 often have I read and re-read them not that 
 I had forgotten one word she said, but they were 
 the witnesses of my happiness, and something
 
 154 LAST MEMORY. 
 
 looked out of them upon me like the gaze of a 
 friend, whose silence speaks more than words. 
 The memory of a past happiness, the memory 
 of a past sorrow, the silent meditation upon the 
 past, when everything disappears that surrounds 
 and restrains us, when the soul throws itself 
 down, like a mother upon the green grave- 
 mound of her child who has slept under it many 
 long years, when no hope, no desire, disturbs 
 the silence of peaceful resignation, we may well 
 call sadness, but there is a rapture in this sad- 
 ness which only those know who have loved and 
 suffered much. Ask the mother what she feels 
 when she ties upon the head of her daughter the 
 veil she once wore as a bride, and thinks of the 
 husband no longer with her ! Ask a man what 
 he feels when the maiden whom he has loved, 
 and the world has torn from him, sends him 
 after death the dried rose which he gave her in 
 youth! They may both weep, but their tears 
 are not tears of sorrow, but tears of joy; tears 
 of sacrifice, with which man consecrates himself
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 155 
 
 to the Divine, and with faith in God's love and 
 wisdom, looks upon the dearest he has passing 
 away from him. 
 
 Still let us go back in memory, back in the 
 living presence of the past. The two days flew 
 so swiftly that I was agitated, as the happiness 
 of seeing her again drew nearer and nearer. As 
 the carriages and horsemen arrived on the first 
 day from the city, I saw that the castle was alive 
 'with gaily-dressed visitors. Banners fluttered 
 from the roof, music sounded through the 
 castle-yard. In the evening, the lake swarmed 
 with pleasure-boats. The mcennerchors sounded 
 over the waves, and I could not but listen, for 
 I fancied she also listened to these songs from 
 the window. Everything was stirring, also, on 
 the second day, and early in the afternoon the 
 guests prepared for departure. Late in the 
 evening I saw the Hofrath's carriage also going 
 back alone to the city. I could not restrain 
 myself any longer. I knew she was alone. I 
 knew she thought of me, and longed for me.
 
 156 LAST MEMORY. 
 
 Should I allow one night to pass without at 
 least pressing her hand, without saying to her 
 that the separation was over, that the next 
 morning would waken us to new rapture. I 
 still saw a light in her window why should 
 she be alone? Why should I not, for one 
 moment at least, feel her sweet presence? Al- 
 ready I stood at the castle ; already I was about 
 to pull the bell then suddenly I stopped and 
 said : " No ! no weakness ! You should be 
 ashamed to stand before her like a thief in 
 the night. Early in the morning go to her like 
 a hero, returning from battle, for whom she is 
 now weaving the crown of love, which she will 
 place upon thy head in the morning." 
 
 And the morning came and I was with her, 
 really with her. Oh, speak not of the spirit as if 
 it could exist without the body. Complete exist- 
 ence, consciousness, and enjoyment, can only be 
 where body and soul are one an embodied 
 spirit, a spiritualized body. There is no spirit 
 without body, else it would be a ghost : there is
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 157 
 
 no body without spirit, else it would be a corpse. 
 Is the flower in the field without spirit ? Does 
 it not appear in a divine will, in a creative 
 thought which preserves it, and gives it life and 
 existence ? That is its soul only it is silent in 
 the flower, while it manifests itself in man by 
 words. Real life is, after all, the bodily and 
 spiritual life ; real consciousness is, after all, the 
 bodily and spiritual consciousness; real being 
 together is, after all, bodily and spiritually being 
 together, and the whole world of memory in 
 which I had lived so happily for two days, dis- 
 appeared like a shadow, like a nonentity, as I 
 stood before her, and was really with her. I 
 could have laid my hands upon her brow, her 
 eyes, and her cheeks, to know, to unmistakably 
 know, if it were really she not only the image 
 which had hovered before my soul day and 
 night, but a being who was not mine, and still 
 could and would be mine; a being in whom I 
 could believe as in myself; a being far from me 
 and yet nearer to me than my own self; a being
 
 158 LAST MEMORY. 
 
 without whom my life was no life, death was no 
 death ; without whom my poor existence would 
 dissolve into infinity like a sigh. I felt, as my 
 thoughts and glances rested upon her, that now, 
 in this very instant, the happiness of my exist- 
 ence was complete and a shudder crept over 
 me as I thought of death but it seemed no 
 longer to have any terror for me; for death 
 could not destroy this love ; it would only purify, 
 ennoble, and immortalize it. 
 
 It was so beautiful to be silent with her. 
 The whole depth of her soul was reflected in 
 her countenance, and as I looked upon her I 
 saw and heard her every thought and emotion. 
 "You make me sad," she seemed on the point 
 of saying, and yet would not. "Are we not 
 together again at last? Be quiet! Complain 
 not! Ask not! Speak not! Be welcome to 
 me! Be not bad to me!" All this looked from 
 her eyes, and still we did not venture to disturb 
 the peace of our happiness with a word.
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 159 
 
 " Have you received a letter from the Ho- 
 frath?" was the first question, and her voice 
 trembled with each word. 
 
 " No," I replied. 
 
 She was silent for a time, and then said: 
 " Perhaps it is better it has happened thus, and 
 that I can tell you everything myself. My friend, 
 we see each other to-day for the last time. Let 
 us part in peace, without complaint and without 
 anger. I feel that I have done you a great 
 wrong. I have intruded upon your life without 
 thinking that even a light breath often withers 
 a flower. I know so little of the world that I 
 did not believe a poor suffering being like my- 
 self could inspire anything but pity. I welcomed 
 you in a frank and friendly way because I had 
 known you so long, because I felt so well in your 
 presence why should I not tell all? because 
 I loved you. But the world does not understand 
 or tolerate this love. The Hofrath has opened 
 my eyes. The whole city is talking about us. 
 My brother, the Regent, has written to the
 
 160 LAST MEMORY. 
 
 Prince, and he requests me never to see you 
 again. I deeply regret that I have caused you 
 this sorrow. Tell me you forgive me and 
 then let us separate as friends." 
 
 Her eyes had filled with tears, and she closed 
 them that I should not see her weeping. 
 
 " Marie," said I, " for me there is but one life 
 which is with you ; but for you there is one will 
 which is your own. Yes, I confess, I love you 
 with the whole fire of love, but I feel I am not 
 worthily yours. You stand far above me in 
 nobility, sublimity and purity, and I can scarcely 
 understand the thought of ever calling you my 
 wife. And, yet, there is no other road on which 
 we could travel through life together. Marie, 
 you are wholly free ; I ask for no sacrifice. The 
 world is great, and if you wish it, we shall never 
 see each other again. But if you love me, if you 
 feel you are mine, oh, then, let us forget the 
 world and its cold verdict. In my arms I will 
 bear you to the altar, and on my knees I wil) 
 swear to be yours in life and in death."
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. l6l 
 
 "My friend," said she, "we must never wish 
 for the impossible. Had it been God's will that 
 such a tie should unite us in this life, would He, 
 forsooth, have imposed these burdens upon me 
 which make me incapable of being else than 
 a helpless child? Do not forget that what we 
 call Fate, Circumstance, Relations, in life, is in 
 reality only the work of Providence. To resist 
 it is to resist God himself, and were it not so 
 childish one might call it presumptuous. Men 
 wander on earth like the stars in heaven. God 
 has indicated the paths upon which they meet, 
 and if they are to separate, they must. Resist- 
 ance were useless, otherwise it would destroy the 
 whole system of the world. We cannot under- 
 stand it, but we can submit to it. I cannot my- 
 self understand why my inclination towards you 
 was wrong. No ! I cannot, will not call it wrong. 
 But it cannot be, it is not to be. My friend, 
 this is enough we must submit in humility and 
 faith." 
 
 it
 
 1 62 LAST MEMORY. 
 
 Notwithstanding the calmness with which she 
 spoke, I saw how deeply she suffered ; and yet I 
 thought it wrong to surrender so quickly in this 
 battle of life. I restrained myself as much as I 
 could, so that no passionate word should increase 
 her trouble, and said : 
 
 "If this is the last time we are to meet in 
 this life, let us see clearly to whom we offer this 
 sacrifice. If .our love violated any higher law 
 whatsoever, I would, as you say, bow myself in 
 humility. It were a forgetfulness of God to op- 
 pose one's self to a higher will. It may seem at 
 times as if men could delude God, as if their 
 small sense had gained some advantage over the 
 Divine wisdom. This is frenzy and the man 
 who commences this Titanic battle, will be 
 crushed and annihilated. But what opposes our 
 love? Nothing but the talk of the world. I 
 respect the customs of human society. I even 
 respect them when, as in our time, they are over- 
 refined and confused. A sick body needs arti- 
 ficial medicines, and without the barriers, the
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 163 
 
 respect and the prejudices of society, at which 
 we smile, it were impossible to hold mankind 
 together as at present existing, and to accomplish 
 the purpose of our temporal co-existence. We 
 must sacrifice much to these divinities. Like the 
 Athenians, we send every year a heavy boatload 
 of youths and maidens as tribute to this monster 
 which rules the labyrinth of our society. There 
 is no longer a heart that has not broken ; there 
 is no longer a man of true feelings who has not 
 been obliged to break the wings of his love be- 
 fore he came into the cage of society for rest. 
 It must be so. It cannot be otherwise. You 
 know not life, but thinking only of my friends, I 
 can tell you many volumes of tragedy. 
 
 " One loved a maiden, and the love was re- 
 turned ; but he was poor, she was rich. The 
 fathers and relatives wrangled and sneered, and 
 two hearts were broken. Why? Because the 
 world looked upon it as a misfortune for a 
 woman to wear a dress made of the wool of
 
 1 64 LAST At E AWRY. 
 
 a shrub in America, and not of the fibres of 
 a worm in China. 
 
 "Another loved a maiden, and was loved in 
 return; but he was a Protestant, she was a 
 Catholic. The mothers and the priests bred 
 mischief, and two hearts were broken. Why? 
 On account of a political game of chess which 
 Charles V and Henry VIII played together, 
 three hundred years ago. 
 
 "A third loved a maiden, and was loved in 
 return ; but he was a noble, she a peasant. The 
 sisters were angry, and quarreled, and two hearts 
 were broken. Why ? Because, a hundred years 
 ago, one soldier slew another in battle, who 
 threatened the life of his king. This gave him 
 title and honors, and his great grandson ex- 
 piated the blood shed at that time, with a 
 disappointed life. 
 
 " The statisticians say a heart is broken every 
 hour, and I believe it. But why? In almost 
 every case, because the world does not recog- 
 nize love between ' strange people,' unless it be
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 165 
 
 between man and wife. If two maidens love 
 the same man the one must fall as a sacri- 
 fice. If two men love the same maiden, one 
 or both must fall as a sacrifice. Why? Can- 
 not one love a maiden, without wishing to 
 marry her? Cannot one look upon a woman, 
 without desiring her for his own? You close 
 your eyes, and I feel I have said too much. 
 The world has changed the most sacred things 
 in life into the most common. But, Marie, 
 enough ! Let us talk the language of the world 
 when we must talk, and act in it, and with it. 
 But let us preserve a sanctuary where two 
 hearts can speak the pure language of the 
 heart, undisturbed by the raging of the world 
 without. The world itself honors this seclu- 
 sion, this courageous resistance, which noble 
 hearts, conscious of their own rectitude, oppose 
 to the ordinary course of things. The atten- 
 tions, the amenities, the prejudices of the world 
 are like a climbing plant. It is pleasant to 
 see an ivy, with its thousand tendrils and roots,
 
 1 66 LAST MEMORY. 
 
 decorating the solid wall-work ; but it should 
 not be allowed too luxuriant growth, else it 
 will penetrate every crevice of the structure, 
 and destroy the cement which welds it together. 
 Be mine, Marie; follow the voice of your heart. 
 The word which now hangs upon your lips de- 
 cides forever your life and 'mine my happi- 
 ness and yours." 
 
 I was silent. The hand I held in mine re- 
 turned the warm pressure of the heart. A 
 storm raged in her breast, and the blue heaven 
 before me never seemed so beautiful as now, 
 while the storm swept by, cloud upon cloud. 
 
 " Why do you love me ?" said she, gently, as 
 if she must still delay the moment of decision. 
 
 "Why, Marie? Ask the child why it is 
 born; ask the flower why it blossoms; ask the 
 sun why it shines. I love you because I must 
 love you. But if I am compelled to answer 
 further, let this book, lying by you, which you 
 love so much, speak for me:
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 167 
 
 bete folte ba liebte in, unb in bier Jibe 
 olte nid;t angeSefyen roerben nu nub unnu}}, fromen 
 ober Sdjaben, geroin ober t>orlut, ere ober unere, lob 
 ober unlob ober bier fein, Sunbev roa in ber 
 roarljeit ba ebelte unb ba attcr bete it, ba olt 
 au^ ba atterlie6te in, unb nmb nid^t anber ban 
 cittern umb ba ; ba e ba ebelt unb bn &ete it. 
 ^ie na^ mec^t ein menSdfje in leben gerid)ten t)on 
 u(en unb con innen. SSon ufen : roan unber ben 
 creaturen it ein 6eer ban ba anber, bar nai^ 
 ban ba erotg gut in einem mer ober minner Spinet 
 unb rourfet ban in bem anbern. $n wel^eni nun 
 ba eroig gut atter meit d;inet, ludjtet, rourfet unb 
 befant unb gelie&et roirt, ba it oud^ ba bcte unber 
 ben cteaturen ; unb in roetdjem bi rninSt it, ba tt 
 oud; ba offer mint gut. @o nu ber mend)e bie 
 creatur rjanbelt unb ba mit umb get, unb bien 
 unberSdjeit befennet, o ol im ie bie bete creatur 
 bie liebSte Sin unb ol id; mit fli ju ir rjalben unb 
 id; ba mit ooreinigen . . ."] 
 
 " The best should be the most loved, and in 
 this love there should be no consideration of 
 advantage or disadvantage, gain or loss, honor 01 
 dishonor, praise or blame, or anything else, but 
 of that which in reality is the noblest and best,
 
 1 68 LAST MEMORY. 
 
 which should be the dearest of all ; and for no 
 other reason, but because it is the noblest and 
 best. According to this a man should plan his 
 inner and outer life. From without: if among 
 mankind there is one better than another, in 
 proportion as the eternally good shines or works 
 more in one than in another. That being in 
 whom the eternally good shines, works, is known 
 and loved most, is therefore the best among 
 mankind; and in whom this is most, there is 
 also the most good. As now a man has inter- 
 course with a being, and apprehends this distinc- 
 tion, then the best being should be the dearest 
 to him, and he should fervently cling to it, and 
 unite himself with it " 
 
 "Because you are the most perfect creature 
 that I know, Marie, therefore I am good to you, 
 therefore you are dear to me, therefore we love 
 each other. Speak the word which lives in you, 
 say that you are mine. Deny not your inner- 
 most convictions. God has imposed a life of 
 suffering upon you. He sent me to bear it with 
 you. Your sorrow shall be my sorrow, and we
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 169 
 
 will bear it together, as the ship bears the heavy 
 sails which guide it through the storms of life 
 into the safe haven at last." 
 
 She grew more and more silent. A gentle 
 flush played upon her cheeks like the quiet 
 evening gleam. Then she opened her eyes full 
 the sun gleamed all at once with marvellous 
 lustre. 
 
 "I am yours," said she. "God wills it. Take 
 me just as I am; so long as I live I am yours, 
 and may God bring us together again in a more 
 beautiful life, and recompense your love." 
 
 We lay heart to heart. My lips closed the 
 lips upon which had just now hung the blessing 
 of my life, with a gentle kiss. Time stood still 
 for us. The world about us disappeared. Then 
 a deep sigh escaped from her breast. "May 
 God forgive me for this rapture," she whispered. 
 "Leave me alone now, I cannot endure more. 
 Auf wiedersehen ! my friend, my loved one, my 
 savior."
 
 170 LAST MEMORY. 
 
 These were the last words I ever heard from 
 her. But no I had reached home and was 
 lying upon my bed in troubled dreams. It was 
 past midnight when the Hofrath entered my 
 room. " Our angel is in Heaven," said he ; 
 " here is the last greeting she sends you." With 
 these words he gave me a letter. It enclosed 
 the ring which she had given me, and I once had 
 given her, with the words: "As God wills." It 
 was wrapped in an old paper, whereon she had 
 some time written the words I spoke to her 
 when a child : " What is thine, is mine. Thy 
 Marie." 
 
 Hours long, we sat together without speaking. 
 It was a spiritual swoon which Heaven sends us 
 when the load of pain becomes greater than we 
 can bear. At last the old man arose, took my 
 hand and said : " We see each other to-day for 
 the last time, for you must leave here, and my 
 days are numbered. There is but one thing I 
 must say to you a secret which I have carried 
 all my life, and confessed to no one. I have
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 171 
 
 always longed to confess it to some one. Listen 
 to me. The spirit which has left us was a beau- 
 tiful spirit, a majestic, pure soul, a deep, true 
 heart. I knew one spirit as beautiful as hers 
 still more beautiful. It was her mother. I loved 
 her mother, and she loved me. We were both 
 poor, and I struggled with life to obtain an hon- 
 orable position both on her account and my own. 
 The young Prince saw my bride and loved her. 
 He was my Prince ; he loved her ardently. He 
 was ready to make any sacrifice and to elevate 
 her, the poor orphan, to the rank of Princess. 
 I loved her so that I sacrificed the happiness of 
 my love for her. I forsook my native land and 
 wrote her I would release her from her vow. I 
 never saw her again, except on her death-bed. 
 She died in giving birth to her first daughter. 
 Now you know why I loved your Marie, and 
 prolonged her life from day to day. She was 
 the only being that linked my heart to this life. 
 Bear life as I have borne it. Lose not a day in 
 useless lamentation. Help mankind whenever
 
 172 LAST MEMORY. 
 
 you can. Love them and thank God that you 
 have seen and known and loved on this earth 
 such a human heart as hers and that you have 
 lost it." 
 
 "As God will" said I, and we parted for life. 
 
 And days and weeks and months and years 
 have flown. Home is a stranger to me, and a 
 foreign land is my home. But her love remains 
 with me, and as a tear drops into the ocean, so 
 has her love dropped into the living ocean of 
 humanity and pervades and embraces millions 
 millions of the " strange people " whom I have 
 so loved from childhood. 
 
 Only on quiet summer days like this, when 
 one in the green woods has nature, alone at heart, 
 and knows not whether there are human beings 
 without, or he is living entirely alone in the 
 world, then there is a stir in the graveyard of 
 memory, the dead thoughts rise again, the full 
 omnipotence of love returns to the heart and
 
 A STORY OF GERMAN LOVE. 173 
 
 streams out from that beautiful being who once 
 looked upon me with her deep unfathomable 
 eyes. Then it seems as if the love for the mil- 
 lions were lost in the love for the one, my good 
 angel, and my thoughts are dumb in the pres- 
 ence of the incomprehensible enigma of endless 
 and everlasting love.
 
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 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS, 
 CHICAGO.
 
 LAUREL-CROWNED VERSE 
 
 Edited by FRANCIS F. BROWNE. 
 
 THE LADY OF THE LAKE. By SIR WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. A Romaunt. B) 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 LALLA ROOKH. An Oriental Romance. By THOMAS 
 MOORE. 
 
 IDYLLS OF THE KING. By ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. 
 
 PARADISE LOST. By JOHN MILTON. 
 
 THE ILIAD OF HOMER. Translated by ALEXANDER POPE. 
 
 2 V01S. 
 
 Each volume is finely printed and bound; i6mo, cloth, gilt tops, 
 price per volume, $1.00. 
 
 In half calf or half morocco, per volume, $2.50. 
 
 All the volumes of this series are from a specially prepared 
 and corrected text, based upon a careful collation of all the mart 
 authentic editions. 
 
 The special merit of these editions, aside from the graceful form 
 of the books, lies in the editor's reserve. Whenever the author 
 has provided a preface or notes, this apparatus is given, and thus 
 some interesting matter is revived, but the editor himself refrains 
 from loading the books with his own writing. The Atlantic 
 Monthly. 
 
 A series noted for their integral worth and typographical 
 beauties. Public Ledger, Philadelphia. 
 
 The typography is quite faultless. Critic, New York. 
 
 For this series the publishers are entitled to the gratitude of 
 lovers of classical English. School Journal, New York. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS, 
 CHICAGO.
 
 LAUREL-CROWNED TALES. 
 
 ABDALLAH; OK, THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK. By ED 
 GUARD LABOULAYE. Translated by MARY L. BOOTH. 
 
 RASSELAS, PRINCE OF ABYSSINIA. By SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
 
 RAPHAEL ; OR, PAGES OF THE BOOK OF LIFE AT TWENTY 
 From the French of ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE. 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. By OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
 THE EPICUREAN. By THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 PICCIOLA. By X. B. SAINTINE. 
 
 AN ICELAND FISHERMAN. By PIERRE LOTI. 
 
 PAUL AND VIRGINIA. By BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE. 
 
 Handsomely printed from new plates, on fine laid paper, i6mo, 
 cloth, with gilt tops, price per volume, $1.00. 
 
 In half calf or half morocco, per volume, $2.50. 
 
 In planning this series, the publishers have aimed at a form 
 which should combine an unpretentious elegance suited to the fas- 
 iidious book-lover with an inexpensiveness that must appeal to the 
 most moderate buyer. 
 
 It is the intent to admit to the series only such tales as have 
 for years or for generations commended themselves not only to 
 the fastidious and the critical, but also to the great multitude of 
 the refined reading public, tales, in short, which combine purity 
 and classical beauty of style with perennial popularity. 
 
 A contribution to current literature of quite unique value and 
 interest. They are furnished with a tasteful outfit, with just 
 the amount of matter one likes to find in books of this class, an<3 
 are in all ways very attractive. Standard, Chicago. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 SESAME AND LILIES. 
 
 THREE LECTURES BY JOHN RUSKIN. 
 
 I. OF KINGS' TREASURES. 
 II. OF QUEENS' GARDENS. 
 III. OF THE MYSTERY OF LIFE. 
 I2mo, 201 pages, gilt top. Price, $1.00. 
 In half calf or half morocco, gilt top, $2.50. 
 
 One of the most popular as well as most valuable of Ruskin's 
 works is " Sesame and Lilies," and this has been brought out by 
 McClurg & Co. in a neat and handy volume of good print and 
 excellent paper. The publishers have wisely inserted in this volume 
 Ruskin's admirable and thoroughly characteristic preface which he 
 prepared for the new and revised edition of his works in 1871. 
 The size, shape, and compactness of this issue make it an admira- 
 ble pocket companion for desultory reading in the cars, in the 
 woods, or at the shore. Evening Transcript, Boston. 
 
 Other editions of this notable and popular book have been 
 printed, but none so tastefully as this. Of the book itself it may 
 not be inopportune to say that it shows the author at his best, 
 being devoted to life instead of art, and embodying Ruskin's ear- 
 nestness and gift of language without calling attention to any of 
 his oddities and hobbies. Herald, New York. 
 
 It would be hard to find a better book to put into the hands of a 
 youth boy or girl at that epoch of life when the spiritual and 
 intellectual faculties seem to leap out with a bound from the chrysa- 
 lis of the animal nature and determine their direction for life. 
 Home Journal, New York. 
 
 The book is one by all means to be commended to young women 
 and young men who care for refinement of character and purity of 
 heart and earnestness of purpose, and who are able to appreciate 
 noble thought clothed in exquisite diction. Evangelist, New York. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 THE STORY OF TONTY. 
 
 AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE. 
 
 By Mrs. MARY HARTWELL CATHERWOOD. 
 I2mo, 224 pages. Price, $1.25. 
 
 ' The Story of Tonty " is eminently a Western story, beginning 
 at Montreal, tarrying at Fort Frontenac, and ending at the old fort 
 at Starved Rock, on the Illinois River. It weaves the adventures 
 of the two great explorers, the intrepid La Salle and his faithful 
 lieutenant, Tonty, into a tale as thrilling and romantic as the de- 
 scriptive portions are brilliant and vivid. It is superbly illustrated 
 with twenty-three masterly drawings by Mr. Enoch Ward. 
 
 Such tales as this render service past expression to the cause of his- 
 tory. They weave a spell in which old chronicles are vivified and breathe 
 out human life Mrs. Catherwood, in thus bringing out from the treasure- 
 houses of half-forgotten historical record things new and old, has set her- 
 seif one of the worthiest literary tasks of her generation, and is showing 
 herself finely adequate to its fulfilment. Transcript, Boston. 
 
 A powerful story by a writer newly sprung to fame. . . All the 
 century we have been waiting for the deft hand that could put flesh upon 
 the dry bones of our early heroes. Here is a recreation indeed. . . . One 
 comes from the reading of the romance with a quickened interest in our 
 early national history, and a profound admiration for the art that can so 
 transport us to the dreamful realms where fancy is monarch of fact. 
 Press, Philadelphia. 
 
 "The Story of Tonty" is full of the atmosphere of its time. It 
 betrays an intimate and sympathetic knowledge of the great age of ex- 
 p]orers, and it is altogether a charming piece of work. Christian 
 Union, New York. 
 
 Original in treatment, in subject, and in all the details of mist en 
 scene, it must stand unique among recent romances. News, Chicago. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 LIFE OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN, 
 By the Hon. ISAAC N. ARNOLD. With Steel 
 Portrait. 8vo, cloth, 471 pages. Price, $1.50. 
 
 In half calf or half morocco, $3-5- 
 
 It is decidedly the best and most complete Life of Lincoln 
 that has yet appeared. Contemporary Review, London. 
 
 Mr. Arnold succeeded to a singular extent in assuming the 
 broad view and judicious voice of posterity and exhibiting the 
 greatest figure of our time in its true perspective. The Trib- 
 une, New York. 
 
 It is the only Life of Lincoln thus far published that is likely 
 to live, the only one that has any serious pretensions to depict 
 him with adequate veracity, completeness, and dignity. The 
 Sun, New York. 
 
 The author knew Mr. Lincoln long and intimately, and no one 
 was better fitted for the task of preparing his biography. He 
 has written with tenderness and fidelity, with keen discrimina- 
 tion, and with graphic powers of description and analysis. The 
 Interior, Chicago. 
 
 Mr. Arnold's " Life of President Lincoln " is excellent in 
 almost every respect. . . . The author has painted a graphic and 
 life-like portrait of the remarkable man who was called to decide 
 on the destinies of his country at the crisis of its fate. The 
 Times, London. 
 
 The book is particularly rich in incidents connected with the 
 early career of Mr. Lincoln ; and it is without exception the 
 most satisfactory record of his life that has yet been written. 
 Readers will also find that in its entirety it is a work of absorb- 
 ing and enduring interest that will enchain the attention more 
 effectually than any novel. Magazine of Atnerican History, 
 Ntw York. ^ 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed on receipt of price, by 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 BIOGRAPHIES OF MUSICIANS. 
 
 LIFE OF LISZT With Portrait. 
 
 LIFE OF HAYDN. With Portrait. 
 LIFE OF MOZART. With Portrait. 
 LIFE OF WAGNER. With Portrait. 
 
 LIFE OF BEETHOVEN. With Portrait 
 From the German of Dr. Louis Nohl. 
 
 In cloth, per volume $ .75 
 
 The same, in neat box, per set 3.75 
 
 In half calf, per set 12.00 
 
 Of the "Life of Liszt," the Herald (Boston) says: " It is writ- 
 ten in great simplicity and perfect taste, and is wholly successful in 
 all that it undertakes to portray." 
 
 Of the " Life of Haydn," the Gazette (Boston) says : " No fuller 
 history of Haydn's career, the society in which he moved, and of 
 his personal life can be found than is given in this work." 
 
 Of the " Life of Mozart," the Standard says: "Mozart sup- 
 plies a fascinating subject for biographical treatment. He lives 
 in these pages somewhat as the world saw him, from his marvel- 
 lous boyhood till his untimely death." 
 
 Of the " Life of Wagner," the American (Baltimore) says : " It 
 gives in vigorous outlines those events of the life of the tone poet 
 which exercised the greatest influences upon his artistic career. . . . 
 It is a story of a strange life devoted to lofty aims." 
 
 Of the "Life of Beethoven," the Nationaljournal of Educa- 
 tion says : " Beethoven was great and noble as a man, and his 
 artistic creations were in harmony with his great nature. The 
 story of his life, outlined in this volume, is of the deepest interest." 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 THE SURGEON'S STORIES 
 
 By Z. TOPELIUS, Professor of History, University of Finland 
 Translated from the original Swedish, comprising 
 
 TIMES OF GUSTAF ADOLF, 
 
 TIMES OF BATTLE AND REST, 
 TIMES OF CHARLES XII., 
 
 TIMES OF FREDERICK I., 
 
 TIMES OF LINN/EUS, 
 
 TIMES OF ALCHEMY. 
 
 In cloth, per volume, 75 cents. 
 The same, in box, per set, $4,50. 
 
 These stories have been everywhere received with the greatest favor. 
 They cover the most interesting and exciting periods of Swedish and 
 Finnish history. They combine history and romance, and the two are 
 woven together in so skilful and attractive a manner that the reader 
 of one volume is rarely satisfied until he has read all. Of their distin- 
 guished author the Saturday Review, London, says, " He enjoys th 
 greatest celebrity among living Swedish writers;" and R. H. Stoddarrf 
 has styled them " the most important and certainly the most readabU 
 series of foreign fiction that has been translated into English for m.inj 
 years." They should stand on the shelves of every library, public and 
 private, beside the works of Sir Walter Scott. 
 
 The Graphic, New York, says : 
 
 "Topelius is evidently a great romancer, a great romancer in the 
 manner of Walter Scott. At moments in his writing there is positive 
 inspiration, a truth and vivid reality that are startling." 
 
 The Sun, Philadelphia, says : 
 
 " We would much prefer teaching a youth Swedish history from the 
 novels of Topelius than from any book of strict historical narrative." 
 
 The Standard, Chicago, says : 
 
 " The series as a whole deserves a place with the very best fiction of 
 the present time. The scenery is new to most readers; the historical 
 period covered one of transcendent interest ; the characters, the incidents, 
 the nairative style in each story are of the sort to carry the reader straight 
 through, from beginning to end, unwearied, and ready, as each volume 
 doses, to open the next in order." 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on. receipt of price, by 
 A. C McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 *T"HE STANDARD OPERAS. Their 
 *- Plots, their Music, and their Composers. By 
 GEORGE P. UPTON, author of " Woman in Music," 
 etc., etc. 
 
 izmo, flexible cloth, yellow edges $i-5& 
 
 The same, extra arilt, gilt edges 3-OO 
 
 " Mr. Upton has performed a service that can hardly be too 
 highly appreciated, in collecting the plots, music, and the com- 
 posers of the standard operas, to the number of sixty-four, and 
 bringing them together in one perfectly arranged volume. . . . 
 His work is one simply invaluable to the general reading pub- 
 lic. Technicalities are avoided, the aim being to give to musi- 
 cally uneducated lovers of the opera a clear understanding of the 
 works they hear. It is description, not criticism, and calculated 
 to greatly increase the intelligent enjoyment of music." Boston 
 Traveller. 
 
 " Among the multitude of handbooks which are published 
 every year, and are described by easy-going writers of book- 
 notices as supplying a long-felt want, we know of none which 
 so completely carries out the intention of the writer as ' The 
 Standard Operas,' by Mr. George P. Upton, whose object is to 
 present to his readers a comprehensive sketch of each of the 
 operas contained in the modern repertory. . . . There are 
 thousands of music-loving people who will be glad to have the 
 kind of knowledge which Mr. Upton has collected for their 
 benefit, and has cast in a clear and compact form." R. H. 
 Stoddard, in " Evening Mail and Express " (New York). 
 
 "The summaries of the plots are so clear, logical, and well 
 written, that one can read them with real pleasure, which cannot 
 be said of the ordinary operatic synopses. But the most im- 
 portant circumstance is that Mr. Upton's book is fully abreaat 
 cf the times." The Nation (New York\> 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, post-pjiid, on receiji 
 if price, by 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 THE STANDARD ORATORIOS. 
 Their Stories, their Music, and their Composers. A 
 Handbook. By GEORGE P. UPTON. i2mo, 335 pages, 
 yellow edges, price, #1.50; extra gilt, gilt edges, $2.00. 
 
 In half calf, gilt top .... $3.25 
 In half morocco, gilt edges . 3.75 
 
 Music lovers are under a new obligation to Mr. Upton for this 
 companion to his " Standard Operas," two books which de- 
 serve to be placed on the same shelf with Grove's and Riemamvs 
 musical dictionaries. The Nation, New York. 
 
 Mr. George P. Upton has followed in the lines that he laid 
 down in his " Standard Operas," and has produced an admira- 
 ble handwork, which answers every purpose that such a volume 
 is designed to answer, and which is certain to be popular now 
 and for years to come. The Mail and Express, New York. 
 
 Like the valuable art hand-books of Mrs. Jamison, these 
 volumes contain a world of interesting information, indispensable 
 to critics and art amateurs. The volume under review is ele- 
 gantly and succinctly written, and the subjects are handled in a 
 thoroughly comprehensive manner. Public Opinion, Wash- 
 ington. 
 
 The book is a masterpiece of skilful handling, charming the 
 reader with its pure English style, and keeping his attention 
 always awake in an arrangement of matter which makes each 
 succeeding page and chapter fresh in interest and always full 
 of instruction, while always entertaining. The Standard, 
 Chicago 
 
 The author of this book has done a real service to the vast 
 number of people who, while they are lovers of music, have 
 neither the leisure nor inclination to become deeply versed in its 
 literature. . . . The information conveyed is of just the sort that 
 the average of cultivated people will welcome as an aid to com- 
 prehending and talking about this species of musical composi- 
 tion. Church Magazine, Philadelphia. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed on receipt of price, by 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 STANDARD CANTATAS. Their 
 
 - Stories, their Music, and their Composers. A Hand- 
 book. By GEORGE P. UPTON. i2mo, 367 pages, yellow 
 edges, price, $1.50 ; extra gilt, gilt edges, #2.00. 
 
 In half calf, gilt top .... $3.25 
 In half morocco, gilt edges . 3.75 
 
 The " Standard Cantatas " forms the third volume in the unV. 
 form series which already includes the now well known " Stan 
 dard Operas" and the " Standard Oratorios." This latest work 
 deals with a class of musical compositions, midway between the 
 opera and the oratorio, which is growing rapidly in favor both 
 with composers and audiences. 
 
 As in the two former works, the subject is treated, so far as 
 possible, in an untechnical manner, so that it may satisfy the 
 needs of musically uneducated music lovers, and add to their en- 
 joyment by a plain statement of the story of the cantata and a 
 popular analysis of its music, with brief pertinent selections from 
 its poetical text. 
 
 The book includes a comprehensive essay on the origin of the 
 cantata, and its development from rude beginnings ; biographical 
 sketches of the composers ; carefully prepared descriptions of 
 the plots and the music ; and an appendix containing the names 
 and dates of composition of all the best known cantatas from the 
 earliest times. 
 
 This series of works on popular music has steadi'y grown in 
 favor since the appearance of the first volume on the Operas 
 When the series is completed, as it will be next year by a volume 
 on the Standard Symphonies, it will be, as the New York 
 " Nation ' has said, indispensable to every musical library. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed on receipt of price, by 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 '"THE STANDARD SYMPHONIES. 
 
 *- Their History, their Music, and their Composers. 
 A Handbook. By GEORGE P.UPTON. i2mo, 321 pages, 
 yellow edges, price #1.50; extra gilt, gilt edges, $2.00. 
 
 In half calf, gilt top . . . . $3 25 
 In half morocco, gilt edges . 3.75 
 
 The usefulness of this handbook cannot be doubted. Its 
 pages are packed full of these fascinating renderings. The 
 accounts of each composer are succinct and yet sufficient. The 
 author has done a genuine service to the world of music lovers 
 The comprehension of orchestral work of the highest character 
 is aided efficiently by this volume. The mechanical execution 
 of the volume is in harmony with its subject. No worthier 
 volume can be found to put into the hands of an amateur or a 
 friend of music. Public Opinion, Washington. 
 
 None who have seen the previous books of Mr. Upton will 
 need assurance that this is as indispensable as the others to one 
 who would listen intelligently to that better class of music which 
 musicians congratulate themselves Americans are learning to 
 appreciatively enjoy. Home Journal, A'eiv York. 
 
 There has never been, in this country at least, so thorough an 
 attempt to collate the facts of programme music. ... As a 
 definite helper in some cases and as a refresher in others we 
 believe Mr. Upton's book to have a lasting value. . . . The 
 book, in brief, shows enthusiastic and honorable educational 
 purpose, good taste, and sound scholarship. The American, 
 Philadelphia, 
 
 Upton's books should be read and studied by all who desire to 
 acquaint themselves with the facts and accomplishments in these 
 interesting forms of musical composition. The Voice, New 
 York. 
 
 It is written in a style that cannot fail to stimulate the reader, 
 if also a student of music, to strive to find for himself the under- 
 lying meanings of the compositions of the great composers. 
 It contains, besides, a vast amount of information about the 
 symphony, its evolution and structure, with sketches of the com- 
 posers, and a detailed technical description of a few symphonic 
 model-i. It meets a recognized want of all concert goers. 
 The Chautauqitan. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed on receipt of price, fy 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 *rHE HUMBLER POETS. A Collec- 
 
 -* tion of Newspaper and Periodical Verse. 1870 to 
 1885. By SLASON THOMPSON. Crown 8vo, 459 pages, 
 cloth, gilt top. Price, $2.00. 
 
 In half calf or half morocco, $4.00. 
 
 The publishers have done well in issuing this volume in a 
 style of literary and artistic excellence, such as is given to the 
 works of the poets of name and fame, because the contents richly 
 entitle it to such distinction. Home Journal, Boston. 
 
 The high poetic character of these poems, as a whole, is sur- 
 prising. As a unit, the collecticn makes an impression which 
 even a genius of the highest order would not be adequate to pro- 
 duce. . . Measured by poetic richness, variety, and merit of 
 the selections contained, the collection is a rarely good one 
 flavored with the freshness and aroma of the present time. 
 Independent, New York, 
 
 Mr. Thompson winnowed out the chail from, the heap, and 
 has given us the golden grain in this volume. Many old news- 
 paper favorites will be recognized in this collection, many of 
 those song-waifs which have been drifting up and down the 
 newspaper world for years, and which nobody owns but every- 
 body loves We are glad for ourselves that some one has been 
 kind and tender-hearted enough to take in these fugitive chil- 
 dren of the Muses and give them a safe and permanent home. 
 The selection has been made with rare taste and discrimination, 
 and the result is a delightful volume. Observer, New York. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed on receipt of f rice, by 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 T^AMILIAR TALKS ON ENGLISH 
 
 JT LITERATURE. A Manual embracing the Great 
 Epochs of English Literature, from the English conquest 
 of Britain, 449, to the death of Walter Scott, 1832. By 
 ABBY SAGE RICHARDSON. Ninth edition, revised. 
 Price #1.50. 
 
 The Boston Transcript says : 
 
 "The work shows thorough study and excellent judgment, 
 and we can warmly recommend it to schools and private classes 
 for reading as an admirable text-book." 
 
 The New York Evening Mail says: 
 "What the author proposed to do was to convey to her read- 
 ers a clear idea of the variety, extent, and richness of English 
 literature. . . . She has done just what she intended to do, and 
 done it well." 
 
 The New York Nation says : 
 
 44 It is refreshing to find a book designed for young readers 
 which seeks to give only what will accomplish the real aim of 
 the study ; namely, to excite an interest in English literature, 
 cultivate a taste for what is best in it, and thus lay a foundation 
 on which they can build after reading." 
 
 Prof. Moses Coit Tyler says : 
 
 I have had real satisfaction in looking over the book. There 
 are some opinions with which I do not agree ; but the main thing 
 about the book is a good thing ; namely, its hearty, wholesome 
 love of English literature, and the honest, unpretending, but 
 genial and conversational, manner in which that love is uttered. 
 It is a charming book to read, and it will breed in its readers the 
 appetite to read English literature for themselves." 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or maL'ect, post-faid, on receift 
 of trice, by 
 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 THE BOOK-LOVER. A Guide to the 
 Best Reading. By JAMES BALDWIN, Ph. D. 
 Sixth edition, i6mo, cloth, gilt top, 201 pages. Price, 
 
 $1.00. 
 
 In half calf or half morocco, $2.50. 
 
 Of this book, on the best in English Literature, which has 
 ilready been declared of the highest value by the testimony of 
 the best critics in this country, an edition of one thousand copies 
 has just been ordered for London, the home of English Liter- 
 ature, a compliment of which its scholarly western author may 
 justly be proud. 
 
 We know of no work of the kind which gives so much useful 
 information in so small a space. Evening Telegram, New 
 York. 
 
 Sound in theory and in a practical point of view. The courses 
 of reading laid down are made of good books, and in general, of 
 the best. Independent, New York. 
 
 Mr. Baldwin has written in this monograph a delightful eulo- 
 gium of books and their manifold influence, and has gained 
 therein two classes of readers, the scholarly class, to which he 
 belongs, and the receptive class, which he has benefited. 
 Evening Mail and Express, New York. 
 
 If a man needs that the love of books be cultivated within him, 
 such a gem of a book as Dr. Baldwin's ought to do the work. 
 Perfect and inviting in all that a book ought outwardly to be. its 
 contents are such as to instruct the mind at the same time that 
 they answer the taste, and the reader who goes carefully through 
 its two hundred pages ought not only to love books in general 
 better than he ever did before, but to love them more wisely, 
 more intelligently, more discriminatingly, and with more profit 
 to his own soul. Literary World, Boston. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed on receipt of price, by 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 TALES OF ANCIENT GREECE. 
 By the Rev. Sir G. W. Cox, Bart., M.A., Trinity 
 College, Oxford. 
 
 xfmo, cloth, price, $1.25. 
 
 "Written apparently for young readers, it yet possesses a 
 charm of manner which will recommend it to all." The Ex- 
 aminer, London. 
 
 " It is only when we take up such a book as this that we real, 
 ize how rich in interest is the mythology of Greece." Inquirer, 
 Philadelphia. 
 
 "Admirable in style, and level with a child's comprehension. 
 These versions might well find a place in every family." The 
 Nation, New York. 
 
 " The author invests these stories with a charm of narrative 
 entirely peculiar. The book is a rich one in every way." 
 Standard, Chicago. 
 
 "In Mr. Cox will be found yet another name to be enrolled 
 among those English writers who have vindicated for this coun- 
 try an honorable rank in the investigation of Greek history." 
 Edinburgh Review. 
 
 "It is doubtful if these tales antedating history in their 
 origin, and yet fresh with all the charms of youth to all who 
 read them for the first time were ever before presented in so 
 chaste and popular form." Golden Rule, Boston. 
 
 " The grace with which these old tales of the mythology are 
 re-told makes them as enchanting to the young as familiar fairy 
 tales or the 'Arabian Nights.' . . . We do not know of a Christ- 
 mas book which promises more lasting pleasures." Publisher J 
 Weekly. 
 
 " Its exterior fits it to adorn the drawing-room table, wnile its 
 contents are adapted to the entertainment of the most cultivated 
 intelligence. . . . The book is a scholarly production, and a 
 welcome addition to a department of literature that is thus fat 
 quite too scantily furnished." Tribune, Chicago. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by 
 A. G. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 SHORT HISTORY OF FRANCE, 
 FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. By Miss E. S. KIRK- 
 LAND, author of " Six Little Cooks," " Dora's House- 
 keeping," &c. 
 
 izmo, cloth, price, $1.25. 
 
 " A very ably svritten sketch of French history, from the ear. 
 iiest times to the foundation of the existing Republic." Citt- 
 finnati Gazette. 
 
 " The narrative is not dry on a single page, and the little his- 
 tory may be commended as the best of its kind that has yet 
 appeared." Bulletin, Philadelphia. 
 
 "A book both instructive and entertaining. It is not a dry 
 compendium of dates and facts, but a charmingly written his- 
 tory." Christian Union, New York. 
 
 " After a careful examination of its contents, we are able to 
 conscientiously give it our heartiest commendation. We know no 
 elementary history of France that can at all be compared with 
 it. " L iving Church. 
 
 " A spirited and entertaining sketch of the French people and 
 nation, one that will seize and hold the attention of all bright 
 boys and girls who have a chance to read it." Sunday After- 
 noon, Springfield (Mass.). 
 
 " We find its descriptions universally good, that it is admirably 
 simple and direct in style, without waste of words or timidity of 
 opinion. The book represents a great deal of patient labor and 
 conscientious study." Courant, Hartford (Conn.). 
 
 " Miss Kirkland has composed her ' Short History of France ' 
 in the way in which a history for young people ought to be writ- 
 ten ; that is, she has aimed to present a consecutive and agreea- 
 ble story, from which the reader can not only learn the names of 
 kings and the succession of events, but can also receive a vivid 
 and permanent impression as to the characters, modes of life, 
 and the spirit of different periods." The Nation^ New York. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 HOME LIFE OF GREAT AUTHORS. 
 By HATTIE TYNG GRISWOLD, i2mo, 385 pages. 
 Price, $1.50. 
 
 In half calf or half morocco, $3*50. 
 
 A collection of upward of thirty descriptive sketches, hav- 
 ing for their subjects Byron, Burns, the Brownings, Bryant, Bul- 
 wer, Bronte (Charlotte), Carlyle, Dickens, DeStael, DeQuincey, 
 liot (George), Emerson, Fuller (Margaret), Irving, Goethe, 
 Hawthorne, Holmes, Hugo, Kingsley, Lowell, Lamb, Long- 
 fellow, Macaulay, North (Kit), Poe, Ruskin, Shelley, Scott, Sand 
 (George), Thackeray, Tennyson, Wordsworth, and Whittier. 
 
 No such excellent collection of brief biographies of literary 
 favorites has ever before appeared in this country. Mrs. Gris- 
 wold's taste and discretion are as much to be admired as her in- 
 dustry in the composition of these delightful sketches. The 
 Bulletin, Philadelphia. 
 
 Most often we have a condensed biography, with special at- 
 tention given to the personal element in the way of description, 
 anecdote, reminiscences, and other such matters as a skilful col- 
 lector could gather from the plentiful sources of such information. 
 There is a noticeable good taste shown in dealing with those 
 more intimate portions of the lives of the heroes and heroines, 
 the affaires de caeur. The Nation, New York. 
 
 The author has shown a rare discrimination in the treatment of 
 her subjects. And in nothing has this faculty been better dis- 
 played than in her selection of authors. This alone is a difficult 
 task, one in which any writer would be sure to offen 1, at least 
 by omission. But the table of contents of this book is a gratify- 
 ing success, and the menu here provided will abundantly satisfy 
 the most of readers. The Express, Buffalo. 
 
 Sold by all booksellers^ or mailed on receipt of price, by 
 A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS.
 
 DATE DUE
 
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